


The Answer: Side stories

by sonatas



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Drama & Romance, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-02-22 20:42:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23066782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonatas/pseuds/sonatas
Summary: A selection of one-shots that expand on events within and outside of the timeline of "The Answer."Chapter 1: 2D and Murdoc's first night out together, pre-Gorillaz.Chapter 2: A glimpse of Murdoc's time in Peru.Chapter 3: 2D's return to Detroit.
Relationships: Murdoc Niccals/Stuart "2D" Pot
Comments: 34
Kudos: 146





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! You may have already seen both of these on Tumblr but I'm moving them here as well for the sake of organization. 
> 
> This was written aaages ago as a one-shot, but after I started writing The Answer, I realized it fit in with the story's canon as well. The events of this chapter are referenced in chapter 13, but can also work as a standalone fic.

When Stuart was young, he had a fascination with extreme weather. Whenever it would storm, he would spend the duration of the time seated enthusiastically by the window in the living room, watching and waiting, hoping to witness something, anything, big. As he grew older, he grew fixated on tornados. Perhaps, he thought, it was because he had never witnessed one in person and was left to only imagine what it felt like from the fuzzy tapes his father had recorded for him off of the television, or maybe it was because the thought of standing in the presence of something so powerful and living to tell about it. Stuart liked to imagine what it would be like to stand right in the center of a tornado and see the funnel from the inside.

His mother tells him the idea is completely ‘mental,’that tornadoes aren’t so common in Crawley, so why bother dreaming about it. But Stuart’s researched tornado alley, and he disagrees. And he continues to learn about them anyway. He buys himself a book on meteorology, and then another on storm chasing. Then he begins to practice looking at the sky as a way to predict weather patterns, and he hopes.

He’s looking at the sky - a very cloudy sky - and hoping the evening he meets Murdoc.

Technically, they’ve met before. Stuart’s daily migraines serve as a reminder of that. Tonight, however, is the first time they’ve spoken alone, and he isn’t sure what to expect or what compelled him to seek the other man out in the first place. 

His parents weren’t much help either. His father was skeptical. His mother was just happy to have her boy back. So Stuart was left as the deciding vote on how he should thank him. It comes down to his memories of the way Murdoc looked at him, and the way Stuart can’t seem to get his face out of his mind that makes him want to know him. 

He finds him loitering around one of the bus stops in town looking shifty and guarded. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on the day of the second crash, and as he lifts his foot to stamp out a cigarette, Stuart notices that at least one of his shoes is on the brink of losing its sole. But his eyes are still as vibrant and expressive as Stuart remembers them. They carry a certain level of excitement in them when he turns to see him.

“Hello,” Stuart says with a wave. “It’s…it’s Murdoc, right?”

“Good memory. So maybe you’re not as brain dead as the doctor said.” Murdoc lights himself a second cigarette and takes a drag. “And you. You’re, uh…what was it...Stephen?”

“Stuart. Or just Stu,” he replies. “So, uh, I don’t feel like I ever got to thank you properly for, uh-”

“Hurling you through the windshield?” Murdoc chuckles.

“Well, not exactly…it’s less about that and more about waking up from my coma.”

Murdoc appears to be receptive to this. “You’ve got that right. If it weren’t for me who knows when you would’ve woken up. You could have been dead.”

Stuart doesn’t like to think about himself dying but he nods anyway. “Yeah, so, uh, we don’t really have the money to give you a big reward or anything but I thought we could do something that you want to do, or I dunno…walk around. My mum gave me some money…”

Murdoc doubles over in laughter at this.

“Or…maybe not,” Stuart says, unsure of how to interpret his reaction.

Murdoc shakes his head as he tries to compose himself. “No, that’s fine..it’s just…wow.” He looks up, a devious grin on his face. “I think…I think I would like that.”

They head further into town from there. Murdoc is interested in pubs and Stuart attempts to make a mental list of places they could go but it’s difficult to think and match the other’s brisk and confident pace at the same time. Internally, he wonders how someone as disheveled and dirty looking as Murdoc grew to be so sure of himself - sure enough, that he could walk around in a town he didn’t know as if he knew where he was going when really, Stuart knows he has no idea.

They eventually settle on a place near the city bank.

Murdoc makes himself at home and is discussing the different beers available on tap with the bartender before Stuart can pick his seat. “So, going by the sound of your offer, I’m assuming the drinks are on you then?” he asks.

“Yeah. Well, and my mum.” He wonders what else to say. It isn’t like he can remember any of their time together, and somehow, asking about what it was like having to carry him around everywhere doesn’t seem like the best conversation starter. Thankfully, Murdoc unknowingly alleviates his burden of indecision for him.

“So have you given any more thought to my offer?”

“Offer?” Stuart remembers him mouthing something to him as he drove him to his parents, but none of what was said. 

“The band! My band.” Murdoc is more animated now. “You play the keyboard, and I need a keyboardist. We’ll have to see about your skill level, but you’ve got the perfect look for it.”

“Me? You don’t think I look, well…a bit odd?”

“No way, mate. You look brilliant. Unforgettable.”

_ Unforgettable. _ Inside, Stuart notices his heart start to beat a little faster.

“All the birds will flock to you,” Murdoc continues. “And me too, of course. See, watch this.” He leans over to the couple next to them and motions towards him. “I’ve got a question for you lot. You see my friend, Stanley, here?”

“It’s Stuart,” Stuart says.

Murdoc ignores him. “Whatever. Anyways, when you look Stuart over here, what would you think he does for a living?”

The couple goes through a few guesses. An artist, a circus performer, and a wannabe punk. The man thinks his hair is fake. His girlfriend remarks that she likes his hair but that overall, he looks “interesting.”

“So he’s not someone you would forget?” Murdoc asks.

They both answer no, and Murdoc promptly shoos them away. “And that’s what I’m looking for - longevity, an impact.”

Stuart isn’t sure. He's considered being part of a band. He enjoyed playing demonstrations for families at his uncle’s store...But for a living? Murdoc had asked two people but what about everyone else?

“I don’t know. It’s not something I’ve ever thought about before.” As he notices Murdoc’s face start to fall he adds, “I’m still thinking about it. And no matter what, I’m going to talk to my uncle about giving you some of our keyboards. He’s still a little ticked, but I think he’ll understand.”

Murdoc studies him for a moment before turning back to his drink, swirling it around in his glass. There's a pensive look on his face “So then, not trying to be rude but…Then why are we here? What exactly is this?”

“What’s what?”

Murdoc rolls his eyes and waves his arms around as if to motion towards the rest of the room. “All of this. The drinks, this night, you ringing me up in the first place? To be frank, I thought it was because you wanted in, but that doesn’t sound like it’s the case.”

“Uh…well, I wanted to say thank you.” Stuart knows he’s going to have to expand on this. “And I guess…I don’t know. It’s just…it’s a funny thing when you spend so much time with someone without ever knowing them, you know? But I want to know you.”  _ That sounds so dumb, _ his brain tells him. “So I guess I just wanted to…talk?”

Murdoc’s eyes widen in surprise at this and then he averts his gaze and mulls over Stuart’s response. The response was benign enough, silly even, Stuart thinks so he doesn’t know why Murdoc seems so thrown off.

“Alright,” he says after a while. “Okay…I can work with that.”

Stuart wastes no time. “So are you from around here? Do you live close?”

Murdoc hesitates to answer this. “I..err, you could say that I float around, waiting for my big break, trying to spread my demos around. They’ve got to get to a label at some point, y’know? There’s got to be some label executive out there that isn’t completely deaf.” He signals for the bartender to refill his glass. “Your parents didn’t tell you much about me, or the court case did they?”

“No. I guess they didn’t, but I never really asked either. I figured I’d talk to you.” Stuart pauses to order a drink for himself. “So when you say you float around…Where’s home from here after tonight?”

“Does it matter?” he responds. “Besides, that’s not what’s important right now.”

He steers the conversation towards Stuart from there, and Stuart happily obliges. He finds himself telling Murdoc about his job, the regular customers, the fairgrounds where he works during the summer. Then he broaches the topic of music and Murdoc turns in his seat a little more so that they’re facing each other. It’s the first time Stuart notices the red hue of his left eye.

It’s easier to talk to Murdoc than he anticipated. They talk about their favorite bands, a conversation that lasts for a significant amount of time. Murdoc tells Stuart about the various cover bands he’s been a part of, and this one time he stole a £5000 worth of wedding gifts from a wedding where he was assigned to play. Stuart follows up with a story about the time he almost broke his wrist after jumping too far off his bed while singing along to The Human League. Murdoc laughs at this. It’s a laugh that, considering how glum and suspicious he looked earlier in the evening, Stuart begins to cherish.

“You’re a crackpot, I gotta say,” Murdoc says, wiping his eyes as they wander out of the pub in search of the next stop.

“Yeah, my classmates always said I was weird, but I learned to sing a lot of songs that way, while I was jumping on my bed,” he replies, grabbing the other man’s shoulder to steer him away from a trash can with which he's about to collide. “Careful,” he says. He almost adds in a comment about Murdoc’s alcohol intake that night but decides against it. He doesn’t want to sound uncool. “Maybe we should grab something to eat."

“Are you kidding? You proposed a pub crawl and we’ve only crawled to one place.”

Stuart decides not to argue with him so they continue walking, or in Murdoc’s case, stumbling, towards their next destination. Murdoc fills the time by attempting to list all the pubs in England that have gotten him the drunkest. Stuart spends splits the time between trying to be engaged and trying to make sure the other man doesn’t end up face-first on the sidewalk.

About a block before the next pub they pass a solitary street busker. The sound of the guitar grabs Murdoc’s attention immediately.

“Oi, old man,” he says without bothering to wait until the song is finished. “You take requests?”

The busker nods. “There’s not a song I haven’t been able to play yet. Old, new, underground, mainstream, whatever you want to hear.”

Murdoc turns to Stuart and grins. “What kinds of night does it feel like?” He only gives him a moment to answer, a chance that Stuart isn’t able to take in time, before turning back to the busker to say, “He’s paying, so I figured he deserves the courtesy.” He turns back to Stuart. “So, uh, St-”

“Stuart,” Stuart says.”

“Right. Stuart. How do feel about the classics? I mean, you can’t really go wrong with the classics.”

“Don’t you want to get to the next place?”

“There’ll be time for that, the night’s just started. ‘Sides, I want to show you my Bowie impression.”

“You do Bowie impressions?” the busker asks.

“Yeah. I did it at a lot of weddings. The crowd loved it but the pay was shit.”

At this point, Stuart notices a small crowd gathering around, and he can’t decide whether he wants to pull Murdoc away before he humiliates himself, or let him have his fun. He settles on the latter as the busker launches into an acoustic version of “Under Pressure.” If he sees Murdoc start to fall, he would have to rely on his reaction time to try to catch him. In the meantime, he would enjoy the music.

He soon finds himself clapping along and holding back laughter as he watches Murdoc's various attempts at dance moves and remembering the lyrics. Whether Murdoc was  _ actually _ a competent wedding singer or not was unknown, but Stuart wasn’t going to judge him based on one drunken performance. At the very least, from the reactions of the crowd, he was entertaining. 

It’s not long before other passing party goers start to sing along, too. When the busker switches to a song by The Clash, Stuart feels the urge to join.

“Now this next one, you might not know so well,” the busker jokes, but as he strums out a few chords it becomes clear that he is being facetious. Stuart immediately recognizes it as “Hey Jude.” This time, he sings along with the crowd. It’s a famous enough song that everyone seems to know it, and after a while, he feels comfortable enough to really start to sing. As they approach the bridge, he begins to imagine himself elsewhere.

_ “Hey, Jude, don’t make it bad, _

_ Take a sad song and make it better, _

_ Remember to let her under your skin..” _

He closes his eyes in anticipation.

_ “…Then you’ll begin to make it better..” _

He sees himself back in his room, jumping on his bed.

_ “Better, better..” _

…Then all of sudden his bed is a stage.

_ Better, better…” _

And then he lets out the best McCartney impersonation that he can muster. It doesn’t register that he is one of the only ones still singing until he hears someone cheer. Then he sees Murdoc staring at him, dumbstruck. Even as the rest of the crowd moves on with the song, he remains frozen, and it makes Stuart feel frozen too, unsure of how to interpret his reaction. Hoping he didn’t scare him or something, he smiles and waves to him. This seems to break Murdoc out of his daze, and he’s soon frantically beckoning him over.

“Have...have you always sounded like that?” He asks once Stuart is within earshot.

“It’s like I said. I play for the kids at the shop and I sing in my room. That was fun too…you don’t think I sounded too bad? I wasn’t expecting everyone to just drop out like that.” The more he thinks about it, the more he likes how the crowd cheered.

“Bad? Can you even hear yourself? You nailed it!” Murdoc is looking at him with a level of amazement that Stuart isn't used to. It reminds him of the day he fell out of the tree, and the wonder he felt thinking he could touch the clouds from where he was sitting. He had been so engrossed he hardly noticed the branch giving way. That’s the way Murdoc is looking at him: like he’s the clouds his eleven-year-old self was trying to touch. He likens it to the way he felt the first time he went on a date with a girl but he pushes that thought away immediately. 

“Yeah…I guess…I guess I did,” he finally responds.

“You know what this calls for? I’d say it calls for another round.” Murdoc begins to charge ahead but stops when he realizes he doesn’t know where he’s going. He turns back to Stuart and asks, “So, uh, where to next?”

Their dynamic changes after that. Murdoc still walks out in front of him like he’s the one leading but his attention is far more focused on Stuart than it was at the beginning of the night. He rambles on about his band, how seamlessly they would work together. Stuart’s hypothetical role has also changed. He’s not just the keyboardist now, but the frontman.

They only make it to one other place before Murdoc is struggling to stay upright. Stuart allows him to lean on his shoulder as they walk.

“Mmm. You got the next place lined up then?” He asks, his breath warm against Stuart’s neck.

“No,” he answers. “I think we should probably think about heading back.”

“Wha? S'not that late.”

“Look at the leaves,” Stuart says. He doesn’t think Murdoc is in any state to comprehend this but he goes on anyway. “See how they look all inside out like that. When there’s a storm coming, the wind does that. And I don’t know about you, but my house is a little while away and I don’t want to get caught in it.”

Murdoc sniffs. “Okay, Mr. Weather Reporter. Whatever.”

“I did like to read about the weather when I was younger. I used to want to be one of those uh, people who chase storms and hunt down tornadoes. I still really want to see one but there aren’t that many tornadoes around here. There are more than you would expect but they’re still rare. It’s tornado season right now.”

“Blah, blah.” Murdoc lifts his head off of his shoulder to look at him and Stuart can see how unfocused his eyes are. “So you’re leaving me early then. That’s fine.”

“No, I…” Stuart trails off as it dawns on him how little he’s managed to learn about Murdoc throughout the night. Sure, he had heard a vivid collection of stories about Murdoc’s past jobs, his music taste, his various sexual escapades and his ultimate goal of forming a band, but it was basic information - his home, his family, his exact age - that was still missing. It meant Stuart had no way of knowing he would be okay after he left him. Right now, he could barely even stand without his support.

“Do you…have somewhere to stay tonight?” He asks.

“Who, me? I’ll be here, there, anywhere…”

“You’ll get along alright on your own?” Stuart persists. He’s doesn’t know why he’s asking anything when he’s already made up his mind.

“Let me tell you this, mate, I’ve never felt more..more ALIVE in my life.” As if to prove a point, Murdoc pulls away from him and tries to run ahead of him. He doesn’t make it far before Stuart has to grab him again to keep him from stumbling into oncoming traffic.

“It’s okay,” he says, even though Murdoc didn’t apologize for anything. “I’m going home. Or well, you and I are going home. My parents let my friends stay the night all the time. This will be fine.” It sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself.

It’s an eventful commute back.  _ Unruly, _ Stuart thinks as he guides Murdoc away from trying to convince a group of teenagers to give him their cigarettes. As they sit on the subway, Murdoc prattles on to anyone with earshot about how famous he’s going to be. Then there’s a frantic moment when they get to their stop where Stuart has to pull him up from the gap after he fails to “mind it.” By the time they arrive home, Stuart feels like he’s just finished a grueling obstacle course akin to the ones he used to have to do in gym class.

The inside of his house presents an entirely new set of obstacles. Once Stuart manages to find his keys and unlock the door - all with one hand, too - he finds himself having to guide both of them through the dark in search of the light switch. All the while, Murdoc fidgets and stumbles next to him, occasionally burying his head into his shoulder and pulling at his jacket in an attempt to steady himself. 

“So, look, Stefan-”

“Stuart.”

“Stuart. Yeah. So, you’re joining my band, right?”

At this point, Stuart is feeling a perplexing mix of worry, admiration, and pity. Questions float through his head as he guides Murdoc down to the basement where his room is. What was the point of answering if his answer would be forgotten in the morning? Did Murdoc even know where he was right now? Who was Murdoc? How could he allow himself to get to such a state when Stuart was still essentially a stranger to him? 

“Um…maybe?” Stuart doesn’t know where his hesitation comes from. Chances are they’d play together and fizzle out as most bands did. If he hadn’t spent the time with Murdoc that he did, he might have written him off as a loser. Still, something about the way he looked at him, and the way that he spoke makes Stuart believe in him.

His response seems to be good enough for Murdoc, and he smiles at him, a hint of disbelief in his eyes. “You mean that? You’ll do great. We’re going to be great.” His attention is diverted when he sees Stuart’s bed. “You mind if I lay down for a bit?”

“Actually I was going to get some blankets for you over here…” Stuart tries to steer him towards the couch on the other end of his room but Murdoc breaks away from him and flops down on the mattress with a relaxed sigh.

“Soft,” he murmurs.

Stuart kneels down beside him and awkwardly begins to turn him so that he’s laying on his side.

“It’s just like I was saying,” Murdoc continues. “And just like the crowd was saying.” He rests his hand on Stuart’s cheek. “You’ve got something. And with me at the wheel, we’re going to be unstoppable.”

Unconsciously, Stuart finds himself leaning into his touch until he feels Murdoc’s nose against his. They’re so close now, close enough that he can see the creases in his skin and what looks to be faded bruises under his left eye and along his neck. He has so many questions, but they’re still so close, and he feels his heart beating faster and faster.

Suddenly, as if he’s read Stuart’s deepest, most secret thoughts, Murdoc pulls him down closer and then they’re kissing; or at least, he thinks they might be kissing. Murdoc’s aim is poor and he lands on the corner of his mouth so maybe, Stuart thinks, he was aiming for his cheek. Nevertheless, he leans in anyways, tilting his head so that they're properly aligned, blushing as the other begins to move with him.  The moment is brief, however, and soon Murdoc is laughing again.

“You’ve been waiting for that one, eh?” He chuckles.

Stuart is mortified.

“Well,” he says with a hiccup. “Get used to it. You’ll have birds lined up for miles.” He holds his hands wide apart to indicate that the space between them is a mile. Then he adds, “And I’ll have some too...More, actually.”

Before he can properly react, he’s nearly assailed by the jagged edge of Murdoc’s fingernail as he clumsily points his finger towards his face.

“Dents,” he says, a lopsided grin on his face.

Stuart furrows his brow in confusion. “Dents?”

“Two dents. In your face. That’s what you look like. But I…” He pats him on the cheek. “But I like it.”

Stuart feels his face turning red again.

“Can I call you that?” Murdoc continues, yawning. “Two-dents?”

Stuart gulps, still unable to fully comprehend if and how the last five minutes even happened, or if he hallucinated it. “Yeah…yeah. Okay.”

Murdoc rolls over so he’s laying on his stomach and yawns again. “Y’know, I have some songs...songs I wrote.” He nuzzles his head into the pillow. “I can bring them over…. You sing them.”

He’s far too out of it to really know what he was saying or what they just did, Stuart decides, and the light snores that follow soon after only substantiate his presumption. For himself, it was just the opposite. He felt aware, painfully aware, of everything that had just happened, and how he was stuck with Murdoc, who he hardly knew but who seemed to know him, passed out in his bed. He can’t bring himself to wake Murdoc up, and he also doesn’t want to leave him, not now and not tomorrow. 

_ Not ever? _ He wonders, but that’s too big a question to ask himself now. Instead, he pulls one of his pillows of the bed, sets it on the floor and sits.

Outside, he hears the rumble of thunder and the shrill whistle the wind. It sounds bad, bad enough that Stuart thinks that if he were to go upstairs to gaze out the window, he might finally see his tornado. But there weren’t many tornadoes in Crawley, there wasn’t really much of anything in Crawley. Stuart looks back to Murdoc sleeping soundly on the bed.

The next day, he asks to see the songs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place in two parts: the first is during the time Murdoc spent in Peru in chapter 21, and the second is when he returns with Noodle and Russel. This probably won't work as a standalone fic but you're welcome to continue reading! The basic idea of it is that Murdoc meets some alpacas and gets more connected with his roots in Peru. Fluff abounds.
> 
> Featuring some beautiful art by Sashkash on Tumblr <3.

It had been a few days since Murdoc said goodbye to his mother for the last time, and he was beginning to look at his life as two separate stages. There was the life he had when he didn't know her ("before Mum"), and the life that began after he woke up confused and directionless on the bank of the river ("after Mum"). 48 hours later, he still feels the frigid temperature of the water and the aches in his body. Every morning he questions who he is and how he still exists. His mind races and scrambles from one subject to another, trying to make sense of what he had just survived, until the rest of him shuts down, and he resigns himself to the old man's couch for the entire day. 

"How are you feeling today?" 

Victor. Right. That was his name. 

Murdoc is sitting in a chair at his table today, staring at a plate of scrambled egg and sausage he assumes is meant for him to eat. 

_Your name is Murdoc. You're sitting in the kitchen with Victor, you're mum's friend from childhood. You feel the sun on your face through the window. You smell the eggs and sausage in front of you._

"I..." Every part of him seems to weighed down in the chair heavy with words and emotions that would tell his story to the man sitting across from him if only he could find the strength to do so. _What happened to me?_ He wants to ask. _When am I going to feel better?_ It had left bits and pieces of itself all over him. His skin still burned from its touch. His heart raced when he imagined it behind him, waiting. The fork in his hand quivers with the rest of him, making small clangs as it hits the plate. He stares at it. The bones in his hand and wrist are sharply defined from the months he spent too anxious to eat. There was so little of him left, and he wonders if he isn't just a hollow frame of a person. He had defeated it, and that gave him some relief, but he doesn't know what he's supposed to do inside a body that remembered so much. 

Shadows dance across the table as people in the street pass by. They seem to reach out toward him with their curved outlines, like talons. His eyes follow them in a brief panic until he repeats his mantra to himself internally. 

His mother's friend regards him with an understanding smile. "Don't rush yourself. But please try to eat something." He then returns to reading the paper, and a comfortable silence falls over the room. 

Murdoc pokes the food around on his plate with his fork for another minute before he attempts a bite. He chews and swallows. He repeats the process again, and then again. Gradually, he begins to notice his stomach growling and the flavor of the food on his tongue and how satisfying it is to swallow it down. _Baby steps,_ he thinks to himself, _baby steps._

* * *

The first body parts that start working again are his feet.

At least once a day, he finds himself leaving the house, choosing a street in the neighborhood and walking until his feet are sore, or his injured left leg weakens. His walks aren't scheduled. Sometimes he goes out in the afternoon, and other days, when he can't sleep, he leaves before the sun is up. Through these spontaneous and purposeless excursions, he begins to learn about the city. 

One street takes him through a large, outdoor market. Immediately, he's taken in by the smells, sounds, and colors. His feet take him past the food vendors, with all kinds of meats and produce decorating their tables. 

_Mamacos,_ he reads on a sign above one bin. He quickly recognizes its contents as ants and stares at it for at least a full minute.

It isn't the only unfamiliar or surprising cuisine he finds. He learns about Paiche, an Amazonian fish that can grow over two meters long, and llama jerky, and sliced cow heart. Then there are the fruits: the bright yellow pitahaya, the sour maracuya, and the smelly noni being among the most memorable. His interest piqued and his adventurous side reawakened, he impulsively buys a selection of the fruits and meats that day and eats them on a bench just outside the market. 

Before he can stop himself, he thinks about Stu, and how comically disgusted he would be.

_And he thought the guinea pig was bad_. 

His cheeks burn, and his heart thumps in his chest. He gulps the aching feeling of yearning down with his mouthful of Paiche.

Next, he wanders into the clothing section. The colors in this aisle are overwhelmingly vivid, like the inside of a kaleidoscope. He finds himself drawn to the intricate patterns of the blankets and ponchos at one table. 

He had a poncho in Detroit that he wore to one of their video shoots promoting solar energy. It was the first time he had sported such a garment and hadn't thought much of it after that. Now, however, he stares at them with a new curiosity. Tentatively, he reaches out a hand and takes the fabric of one of the ponchos in his hand. It's heavy and warm and comforting. As a smile emerges on his face, he thinks of her. 

The vendor greets him and asks him something in Spanish. He can only make out a couple of words. 

"Oh, er, just doing some window shopping," he says. "But, Gracias." _Thank you_ was the only phrase he could say on the spot. 

The vendor looks at him, seemingly surprised by his accent and the way he fumbles his words. He replies in more words that Murdoc can't make out. He's friendly and accommodating, but the damage had been done. It was in these moments that it was impossible to ignore the internal voice of his that called him an outsider. He was in his fifties now, his memory was damaged by age and alcohol use, his trust in others was shaky at best. Cultivating any sort of connection outside of the tiny thread provided by Victor seemed to be an impossibility. 

He drops the fabric and waves the vendor off. "Never mind, mate. I've got other places to be." 

But he walks the same way the next day, only this time to the neighborhood beyond. The next day, he tries another direction and then another. Soon the sounds of the city become familiar from the chatter to the street music ranging from Andean folk music to top 40 hits from the 90s. He comes to know the smell of _picarones_ and _anticuchos._ He cherishes the strength of the sun and the way the dust from the street clings to his skin after hours of walking.

Still, the words wouldn't come, not in conversation and not on paper. There was small talk, and between himself and Victor there was plenty of it. Murdoc would tell him about the food he tried that day, about the sloth he saw crawling through the town square. He would show him the bottle of pisco he picked up at the liquor store down the street. In return, Victor would talk to him about his shop, the neighborhood gossip, and Murdoc's mother. 

Murdoc adored those stories but they didn't make it any easier to talk about what had happened in the jungle. Yet the experience still stirred inside him. He would ignore it if he could, but its presence leaves him tense and discontent.

Eventually, he braves their public transportation with a few Peruvian soles, a bottle of rum, and the journal Stu bought him at the gas station in Texas. He has no direction in mind, only a goal to find somewhere quiet enough to sort out his thoughts.

_Alone_.

He shudders but acknowledges the thought. He was more alone than he ever had been, and it was likely that his life would stay this way after what he said to Stu. 

_Stu._

He sinks deeper into his seat and tries to distract himself by staring out the window. He was alone, and he was changing. But he still loved to write songs and chat about himself and his interest in music. Those parts of himself were still there, and he needed to find them. He had to accomplish that before he could confront what he had done to his relationship with the singer.

The final stop at the bus leaves him in a clearing surrounded by a selection of dirt paths. He chooses one at random, and it takes him deeper into the woods. Around him, hears the drone of insects and the chatter of birds and other unidentifiable creatures hidden in the leaves. 

"It's not much quieter here than in town," he mutters to himself. 

After another five minutes of walking, the trees begin to thin, and the path on which he's walking becomes more defined. Next, a fence with heavy wood lap rails catches his eye. The sight seems to awaken the pain in his leg and brings his attention to his sore feet. The heeled boots he elected to wear weren't the best for spontaneous hiking. Spurred forward by the need for relief, he climbs onto the top rail of the fence and sits. 

The field in front of him is a deep green, rich from the water from the heavy rain from earlier in the week. And as he had hoped, there were no other people in sight. _Perfect._ He admires the view for a moment and takes out his journal. 

However, it doesn't take long for the forest to provide its own interruptions. 

He only manages to write a few words and a poorly done sketch of a tree before he hears it. It's a high-pitched screech, a sound he assumes would come from a monkey. However, when he turns his gaze in the sound's direction, he sees a group of deer-like animals. From a distance, they appear to be fluffy clouds, ranging in color from white to brown. The noises continue.

Murdoc stares them down with an annoyed glare and returns to his work. 

_I waited until Stu was out of sight,_ he writes. 

The animals seem to screech louder. 

Murdoc lets out a frustrated growl and scrapes the pen across the paper with a heightened sense of resolve. _He listened to me when I told him to leave, that's the kicker. And I..._

He hears another screech. 

"Oh, shut up!" He snaps, only to find them just a few feet away from him. Now, he can get a better look at them. 

_Llamas?_

They stare at him, and he stares back. There are more pairs of eyes on him than there have been in a long time. Though it's somewhat unsettling, he's grateful that they're quiet. And with a grunt of approval, he tries to write. 

He doesn't notice them walk towards him until he feels the soft bump of a nose against his knee. It nearly shocks him backward off the fence. In a precipitous attempt to avoid falling, he drops his journal and digs his nails into the wood. The book falls inside the fence and is immediately trampled, but he holds steady. 

Their screeching has settled into a low hum, like a small orchestra of kazoos, or the theremin noises Stu would sometimes use to soothe him when he was anxious. Murdoc decides he likes the llamas' noises better. Unlike the theremin noises, the llama noises didn't incapacitate him, or "tranquilize him with sound," as Stu used to say. 

The llama nuzzling him is white and has a considerably distinct tuft of fleece growing on its head. It looks so soft Murdoc can't resist patting it. In response, it jumps away. The others follow. 

Sighing, Murdoc returns to his work. 

Soon enough, they return to him. The white llama slowly approaches him again. This time he waits to see what it wants to do. Again, it nudges at his knee. Then it nibbles at the fabric of his pants. The sensation of its teeth tickles, and it causes him to laugh. He wants to pet its head again but stops himself. Instead, he listens to their humming until he loses track of time. 

"So there I was, in the middle of the jungle..." He tells Victor later that night. "And out in the open, no more than a couple meters away from me was an entire pack of llamas!" 

"In the wild? That would be surprising. This isn't their natural habitat. If you see them, they usually belong to one of the farmers in the area." 

"Well, yeah. They were inside the fence," he concedes. "But they came right up to me."

"They probably thought you were there to feed them," Victor says. 

"I only wrote a couple sentences, but I'd bet you money that I pet each and every one of them. They couldn't get enough of me." He leans back in his chair. "Did my mum have a llama? Did she like them?" 

Victor laughs. "I wouldn't have trusted your mother with a house plant. She was a lot like you." 

Murdoc gives him a look of suspicion. "Go on..." 

"You're not always...interested in animals." 

His answer was diplomatic enough. "That's true. But these llamas weren't so bad...never expected them to make so much noise, but after they settled down, they just stood by me and ate grass." Besides their theremin-like noises, something was calming about another living thing simply be present, and not expect anything of him. 

He spends the next few days wandering down the different paths, all of which lead him through more forest and nowhere to sit. And nothing lives up to the fluffy wool of the llamas and their soothing sounds. 

After enough trial and error, he returns to the field and finds them in the same place as the beginning of the week. This time, they approach him without screeching at him. The white one leads them over and goes back to nudging and sniffing him as if to pick up from where it left off. He spends most of the afternoon from there running his hand along their necks and listening to their odd, yet comforting, sounds. His journal still bent and stained with mud, sits on the grass outside the fence. 

He returns the next day and then the next. The words begin to make successful journeys from his brain to his notebook by the fifth visit. He's crouched inside the fence with them that day, studying the page in front of him. He hardly notices the squelch of the moist ground under their hooves or the way they trot around him and mouth at the grass. It isn't until a flash of white obscures his vision, and he feels the warm wool against his cheek, that his concentration breaks. The white llama's head rests against his chest as it seems to embrace him with its neck. 

Murdoc isn't sure how to react, thinking that it's going to try to eat the paper of his notebook. But he soon notices other llamas in similar poses. Some are resting against each other, others curl their neck around the other as if they're hugging. He relaxes, inhaling the air around him. The llama's wool carries the smell of the earth; rain, dirt, grass. He strokes its neck and rests his head on its shoulder. 

That day, he writes down his first account of meeting his mother.

"Do you lot ever get bored out here?" He pets the white llama with his left hand and writes with the other. It's his eighth visit, and he's started having one-sided conversations with them. "All I ever see you do is eat." 

Another llama tries to nudge his hand in an appeal for his attention, but the white one stops it. Murdoc is surprised to see it turn and spit at the other llama. It gives it a warning squawk as it retreats. 

"Oi, be nice," he chides it, though he doesn't stop his petting. "You're a fine old chap but I'm here to visit all of you." The white one was always the first one to greet him, though, and he would be lying to himself to say he didn't notice it. 

Suddenly, he hears other voices. They're faint at first, but it isn't long before he makes out two figures standing across the field. One is pointing in his direction. They start walking towards him.

Murdoc gulps and hastily tries to dismount the fence. He isn't so graceful this time and hits the grass with a soft thud. Unsure of what they want but certain that he isn't wanted there, he runs off before they get too close. 

"You look upset," Victor observes at dinner. 

"I need to ask you a favor," he says. 

"Yes?"

"You know the llama farm I've been frequenting? I, er, met the owners today...sort of. They didn't look too excited to see me." He picks at the food on his plate with his fork. 

"They were probably surprised to see a stranger on their property." 

"Maybe to them I am, but I've become quite chummy with their livestock." He turns his gaze to him. "So, I was wondering if you would go back with me tomorrow and tell them that. In case you've forgotten, I'm not exactly the bilingual prodigy that I used to be...I'd like to continue my visits." 

"I see..." The older man hides it well, but Murdoc picks up on his perplexion. 

"I've been writing a lot," he offers. " _Pages upon pages._ It's like I'm bloody battery-powered out there." 

"Uh-huh."

"You know," he continues. "It's not every day that I meet an animal that likes me, let alone an entire pack of them. And it's not as if I have any..." He stops himself before he can say "friends." But outside of Victor, he hadn't bonded with anyone else in town. The language barrier was a significant part of it, but it was also due to his own wariness of the world as of late. 

"...Alright," Victor says after a long pause. 

They make the trip to the farm the following day. 

"You've been hiking this far?" The older man sounds surprised. "And staying out here...all day?"

"What? I don't look outdoors-y enough for you?" Murdoc swats an insect away from his face. "Bugger off," he snaps at it. 

"You're feet wouldn't hurt as much in the evening if you wore different shoes." 

Murdoc glances down at his boots. "Not a chance." 

After a few more minutes, the fence is within his line of sight. 

"There it is!" Then he points to the herd of llamas in the distance. "And there they are." He has a bag of llama and alpaca pellets with him that he purchased from the store that morning, and he takes it out of his jacket pocket. 

He hears Victor chuckle behind him.

"What?" He says. 

"Murdoc, those aren't llamas. Those are alpacas." 

"Alpacas?" Murdoc stares at them. They look like llamas. 

"Alpacas are smaller than llamas and are very special in our country. They were said to be a gift from the goddess, Pachamama, to the people of Andean Highlands thousands of years ago. We hold them in great respect to this day." 

"Alpacas," he repeats. This was the first time he had heard the word, alpaca.

Victor leans over the fence and watches them. " _Yo soy vicuñita y vengo de la Puna_ ," he sings. _"Vengo escapando de los cazadores_ ." He repeats the lines before moving into the second verse. " _Ay guei vicuñita rishpi japi sonka. Ay guei vicuñita rishpi japi sonka_." 

Murdoc leans against the fence next to him, shifting his weight awkwardly as he listens. 

"It's a lullaby," Victor informs him. "My grandmother used to sing it to me, one verse in Spanish, one in Quechua. 'In English, it would be..." he thinks. " _' I am a vicuña and I come from the Puna, I come, having escaped from the hunters. Oh my, the little vicuna goes everywhere with all its heart. Oh my, the little vicuna goes everywhere with all its heart.'_ Vicuña' means alpaca."

They're all gathered at the fence, humming. Murdoc holds out his hand to them. "Vicuña," he says, trying to get a grasp of the pronunciation. "I, er, hadn't heard of you before today. But, uh, I've respecting them." He glances back at Victor nervously. 

"So, uh, anyway. You see this one?" He motions towards the white alpaca as it eats. "He's my best mate of the pack. I've decided to call him, Beleth, after the demon. He's not as well know as Beezlebub or Belphegor, but he commands five armies and he likes music. This Beleth commands an army of llam- I mean, alpacas, so I thought it fit." 

"If they're letting you get that close, you must be," Victor says. "It can take some time to earn their trust. They're curious, but timid animals. But Murdoc, you know that all of these alpacas already have an owner..."

Murdoc beams. "And you know what? I respect that story you told. In Britain, they're always going on about our football team being lions as if lions are native to the United Kingdom. It's all bollocks. At least in Peru, you revere animals that got their start on the same continent." 

He holds out both of his hands, and more alpacas gather around him. Their bottom teeth scrape his palms, cleaning off every last bit of food. Then they nudge him eagerly for more. There was a layer of guilelessness to their impatience. They were never angry at him, and they never held a grudge when he ran out of food before they all got a turn. They never made him feel like he had to stay longer than he wanted to. They didn't know about his past, and even if they did, he doesn't believe they would judge him for it. He felt happy when they were happy, and he could always expect them to be there. 

He laughs at the sensation. 

"How about I go find their owner?" He hears Victor say behind him. 

"Yeah, yeah...shit!" He jumps in surprise when he gets caught in the crossfire of one alpaca spitting at another. 

Victor returns about an hour later. An old woman accompanies him. Her gray hair is tied neatly in a bun, and she's hunched over with age. Still, she matches his stride without the use of a cane or walker. 

As they approach, Murdoc feels self-conscious. He considers how ridiculous he must look, standing around in mud-stained clothes, surrounded by animals that didn't belong to him. It wasn't like him. No one from home would recognize him if they saw him as he was now. 

"Murdoc," Victor says. "This is señora Murillo. The alpacas have been in her family for over five generations. She wants to know what you are doing here." 

"Oh, uh..." Murdoc flit from the alpacas to the ground to the forest in the distance. "I'm just writing and, er...feeding them?" He grins sheepishly. 

The woman turns to Victor and whispers something to him.

"She can speak up," Murdoc says. "I can't understand anything she says anyway." 

The woman stops speaking and stares him down. 

"...But only if that's easier for her," he speaks rapidly. "Whatever volume suits her..." 

"She is asking if you have ever raised alpacas." 

"Uhhh, no."

"She wants to know what you intend to do from here." 

"I'd like to keep visiting," he says. "In case you couldn't tell, they love me." 

The woman whispers more harshly. She and Victor converse.

"...Please?" Murdoc adds. 

"She thinks your request is odd, but she will agree to it." 

Murdoc sighs in relief. 

"But you must notify her when you're coming. Someone from her family will be there to watch you while you visit." 

"What? Why?" Part of what made him feel so comfortable with them was the absence of other people.

"She doesn't know you, and she thinks your reasons for coming are strange. She also tells me that you should be prepared to help with their care if they find you capable of doing so." 

Murdoc can feel his excitement dulling as the list of conditions grows. "Do...do I have to? I just want to pet them." He frowns. "She's has kids. Hasn't she ever watch any of those movies where the lonely person meets the horse, or the dog, or the...I don't know...sheep, forges a lifelong friendship and saves the town?!" He tries to recall as many famous works about animals as he can. "She knows she could have the next _War Horse_ here in her pasture, right? I could find her the next horse from _War Horse o_ r the next _Lassie_!... Except you know, with alpacas." 

Victor smiles sympathetically at him and passes along his final plea. "She hasn't heard of either of those animals and says that her offer is final. She would also like me to tell you that your friend's name is Ofelia, and that _he_ is a _she."_

Murdoc turns to the white alpaca, formerly and fleetingly known to him as Beleth, and silently nods in understanding. "Alright then..." 

"So, what do you think?" 

He runs his hand through Ofelia's wool, recalling the way Stu used to word his fingers through his hair. He tries to match his tenderness in return for the trust the animals have so willingly given him. "I'll give it a go, I guess." What else did he have? 

Having another person there is an adjustment. Murdoc realizes soon that it isn't so much the person that bothers him as it is their judgments about him. He can't help but assume the family members spending time with him are bored with him. And as a self-identified entertainer, he can't help but feel a sense of failure.

But even when he doesn't get any writing complete there, he notices changes outside of his visits. He aches less in the morning when he wakes up. It becomes easier to leave Victor's house without any alcohol in his bag. He eats lunch regularly out in the field with the animals. Soon, he begins to speak. 

He tells Victor what happened in the jungle a few days later, sitting in the grass surrounded by them as they eat hay from his hand, nibble at other parts of his clothes, and nuzzle him. The words tumble out of him in irregular bursts between his sniffs and pauses. They create an uneven rhythm anchored by the steady hums.

"I feel like shit," he says. "Because she could have survived this. She could have stayed with you. I would have found my way out of my dad's hell hole one way or another. She shouldn't have had to..." 

The older man listens to him in silence, his eyes downcast. 

"I think that's what I can't let go," Murdoc continues. "Why did it have to be either her or myself?" 

"She wasn't going to leave you, Murdoc, not with him. And she would never have escaped what he did, even if she stayed in Peru." 

"If you don't fuck the world over, it fucks you over. I hate it. I hate what it did to me. There's so much that I'll never have." 

"I never wanted to say goodbye to your mother," Victor says gently. "You're having to let her go as her son must have been harder than I could ever imagine. But, Murdoc, you did everything she knew you could. You finished what she couldn't, and you found her. Neither of you will have to worry about the curse ever again. She's happy, and that's all I ever wanted for her. Now, that's what I want for you." 

Murdoc mulls over his words. He can't accept them. _It's not fair,_ he wants to say. He wants to destroy something. Perhaps he would drive his fist into the fence or tear his journal apart. Anything to get rid of the anger stirring inside him. 

He clenches his jaw. _You're in your fifties, Murdoc,_ he tells himself. _You're too old for temper tantrums._ He leans against the soft fleece of the alpaca behind him and breathes. 

As the days pass, the words become easier. Señora Murillo's family proves to be less of a distraction than he anticipated. Often, it's her son who stays with him. He spends most of his time playing games on his phone than watching Murdoc. However, he eventually shows him around the farm so that he can learn where they keep their hay, and where their shelter is with their water basin. 

Murdoc does his own research in the evenings, learning about what plants are poisonous to them and what their different noises mean. He becomes comfortable sitting with them, and following them around the field as he thinks. 

"I forget if I ever told you this, but thank you," he tells Victor one day. He's balancing a mound of woven yarn in his lap as he sits on the fence. Some of the pieces have been cut into strands about a foot long, and rest across his left thigh. The uncut yarn is positioned on his other leg.

"Oh?" He seems surprised. "You're welcome." 

"For, uh, letting me stay with you," he says. He measures a strand of yarn against the one he had previously cut and slices it with his knife. "And for booking me this gig. I probably would have been plastered on your couch without it." 

"That was also your doing," Victor says. "You wouldn't have found this place if you had stayed inside the house." 

"And here I am, practically knitting for an elderly woman and her herd of alpacas." He measures another strand of yarn. Señora Murillo needed more tassels new halters for her animals. The first strand was cut for him, and he was instructed to cut the rest. She would weave them all together later that week. "The strolls I went on in the states didn't use to end like this," he says. 

"What do you mean?"

"Do you know how many liquor stores they have in Detroit?" That was always where he started. "America and its bloody liquor stores. Then, of course, there were always the pubs. They're not quite as cozy and warm as the pubs in England, but I'm not a picky man. But now, I'm distracted." 

He shoos an alpaca away after it reaches for the yarn. "I'm doing this for you, you know. Since when is hay orange?" 

"They're doing a good job keeping you busy. I bet you could work here if you wanted to," Victor says. "Have you thought about what you will do?"

"Mate, I've been trying not to think about anything." Measure and cut. That's all he wants on his mind right now. "Except when I'm writing." 

"Well, if you plan to stay longer than six months, I'd like you to find a source of income. You don't have to make any decisions now, but it's something to think about. Señora Murillo has been very appreciative of your work here. And you seem to enjoy it."

Murdoc watches the herd trot around the field. They move as a unit with Ofelia at the front. He's come to learn that she's the dominant alpaca of the group. She was always the first to greet him or eat from his hand. It made sense in retrospect.

"This was something Stu always went on about," he says. It's the first time he's uttered the singer's name since he told him to go home. "Farming. Living out in the middle of a field or in the woods, just the two of us." 

_Measure and cut,_ he tries to redirect his brain. 

But Stu is everywhere. He sees his hair in the sky, his frame in the tall trees. And when they hum, he hears those stupid theremin noises he used to make. Guilt and longing weigh down on his chest. "As it turns out, I don't mind it so much." He doesn't want to think about Stu, but at the same time, he misses him.

Victor listens in silence. 

"I shouldn't have yelled at him," Murdoc says. "He had a lot more figured out than I ever did...I just couldn't see it."

"You had a lot clouding your mind at the time." 

"I'm a bloody idiot." 

"No, you're not, Murdoc. You're figuring yourself out." 

"When I'm out here, I don't have to think about him. I don't have to think about where I'll be next year or next week." He suddenly has the urge to throw the yarn on the ground. "Fuck it! I'm avoiding everything." 

"Do you want to call him?" 

"No," he answers quickly. "I mean...not now. I...I don't want to, not at the moment."

They stay in the presence of each other in silence until Murdoc falls back into the rhythm of measuring and cutting the yarn. 

"Anyhow," he says. "About the table you have in the market...How are you lot advertising?" 

"Advertising?" 

Murdoc closes his eyes and imagines a page in his notebook. "Yeah. You know, enticing the public to purchase your wares is an art form of its own. Do you use the TV or radio?"

Victor shrugs. "We set up our table every weekend. We're always in the same spot. People have come to know us." 

"Oh come on, don't tell me you've never had an elevator pitch." 

He shakes his head. 

"What if I helped you out with that?" Suddenly, his hands are quivering in excitement at what he anticipates might turn into a new, albeit temporary purpose. "I've got some chords written down. They aren't much, but I could turn them into something, send it to the radio. You'll have new customers fighting over your ayahuasca vials faster than you can blink." 

"You mean like a song?"

"A little jingle. You know, as you hear in commercials." He had never thought highly of the task. People who wrote songs for commercials had always been unfortunate sods who never made it big in his eyes. Who would have predicted that years later, he would be practically begging to write one himself? "I'd like to do that for you...as a thank you...and perhaps to buy myself some time before getting that job you speak of." 

Victor laughs. "I still haven't heard much of your music, but to be successful, you must be talented. And you are your mother's son. I'll accept your offer." He pats Murdoc gently on the back. "And the job is only a requirement if you intend to stay." 

Murdoc's eyes take in the field in front of him. The alpacas have lost interest in him for the time being, and have gathered under one of the trees. "This is the most at home I've felt since I woke up in the river," he says. The alienation he had struggled with in the beginning was beginning to fade as images of himself on the farm grew clearer. For once, he could see himself as part of the country rather than a stranger in it. Surely he could adjust to staying. "So I guess I'm here. I don't know what else I've got at the moment." 

Victor joins him at the fence. "Does this feel right to you?"

He would always feel the absence of his mother and of Stu. However, his mother was dead, and Stu probably hated him. There was nothing left for him anywhere else. Perhaps he could make up the time his mother lost by living in her country. He had a chance to be anything: a waiter, a fisherman, an alpaca farmer. He could even go back to school once he got a better grasp of the language. It was possible to get used to life in Peru if he tried. "Yeah," he says. "As right as it's going to get." 

But he doesn't know. He wants to believe he could belong, but Gorillaz would always be there. Stu would always be there. Why couldn't he stop thinking about him? Was it the natural progression of a break-up, or did it mean something more? His mind drifts to the singer's journal, still stored at the bottom of his backpack.

"You might be surprised at how much you still have."

* * *

_One year later_

"We're almost there." The trail to the farm hasn't changed since he left on the final flight back to Detroit. 

"Jeez, Muds. You hiked all the way out here? More than once?" Russel trails behind him, gawking at their surroundings. 

"Nearly every day for an entire month," Murdoc says. "Hurry it up, Russ. I'm not about to let any of you slow me down. You're lucky I'm showing you any of this." 

The seasons in South America are the opposite of seasons in the states. Electing to escape the Michigan heat, Murdoc decides to return to the country during their summer and Peru's winter. He hadn't planned to invite along the rest of his band. In fact, even after two days in the country, he was still warming up to the idea.

"Calm down, Murdoc." Noodle walks next to him, occasionally snapping pictures of their surroundings with her phone. "I never thought I'd say 'Murdoc' and 'hiking' in the same sentence either." 

Murdoc isn't in the mood to be teased. Holding back his emotions when he saw Victor again was enough. Even more difficult; his arrival in the country. He remembers how his eyes watered as the plane descended and how he struggled to blink back his tears. This trip was emotional for him in ways they could never understand. 

"Well," he says, pushing away his irritation just as he had done to his other feelings. He's starting to wish it was only him and Victor. "What can I say, I'm a man of many surprises." 

"And there are still a few surprises left," Victor says. "There seems to be some tension between you. I think this visit will provide some relief."

"It's so beautiful," Noodle remarks. "Would you mind if I share the pictures I'm taking? So many people have lost their connection to the natural world, and while they may not be here in person, maybe if they see these pictures they will be reminded." 

"Yeah," Russel says. "The world's rainforests are under a constant threat of being destroyed by the wealthy. The indigenous activists doing the work to protect them need all the publicity they can get." 

"We'll talk about that later," Murdoc says. "The last thing I want is for Senora Murillo to be swarmed by obsessive fans looking for internet points or their next photo-op." Finally, he sees the familiar wooden fence. 

"She does prefer to live a quiet life," Victor says as Murdoc starts to walk more quickly towards the fence. 

Once he sees the alpacas, he doesn't wait for the rest of them. They look the same way they did when he left them. Pulling some food out of his pocket, he climbs over the fence and into the field with them. "Remember me?" He asks. 

Ofelia is the first one to greet him, her neck adorned with the colorful tassels he remembers measuring out days before he left for Detroit. She hums into his hand as she eats. The others follow. "You're all here." A smile cracks on his face. "Ofelia, Beatriz, Pilar, Luna, Sofia, Rosa...uh..." He looks over at Victor. "Did she get more?" 

"Yes, a few from her niece. Take a closer look."

"Okay, now this is getting freaky," Russel says. 

Noodle reaches her hand through the fence, waiting for one of them to come over. "They're adorable!"

"Murdoc would come here every day when he was staying with me." 

"Yeah, and I found it all by myself." Murdoc crouches down lower so that he's more level with them. "This here is Ofelia. She was my best mate here." He scratches her neck, and she spits at another alpaca who gets too close. "She knows what it's like to be a leader." 

Victor laughs. "You aren't looking."

"What?" Murdoc asks, confused.

"Hey there, buddy." Russel follows Noodle and reaches his hand in as well. "Were you Murdoc's only friend?" 

"Alpacas?" Noodle holds her camera close enough to take a picture. "How sweet! And they like you back, Muds?" 

"Alpacas have long memories," Victor says. "Even when Murdoc had to leave on such short notice, they'll always remember how he kept them company." 

"Awww." Noodle pets Pilar on the head. "Did Muds ghost you, too?" 

"They don't like to be petted on the head." Murdoc shoots a glare at both of them. As if on queue, Pilar moves away from Noodle as well. "And I came back, didn't I? Just like I came back to you lot, though I'm questioning that decision."

"We're all familiar with Murdoc's impulsive decisions," Victor says. "And we also know that he maintains the bonds that matter to him. You're both important to him, just as much as Stuart. I understood when he told me he had to go back to America, as did Señora Murillo. I'm sure his alpaca friends did as well." 

"Exactly," Murdoc snaps. "I almost stayed here...I hope you know that. Maybe you think it's funny, but these bloody animals gave me a sense of stability. And yes, they helped me remember how to form an actual connection with another living thing."

His words, though somewhat harsh, seems to get through to them. 

Noodle regards him with a sense of sympathy. "I see that. I'm sorry if I didn't seem to be taking all of this seriously."

"Yeah, man," Russel says. "This is a beautiful place, and I can see why you would want to keep coming back. It sounds like we owe a lot to it too." He turns to Victor. "In case we don't get to meet her, can you give Senora Murillo a thank you from us?" 

"Of course," he says. "Señora Murillo also left a message for you, Murdoc." 

Murdoc looks up. "Oh?"

"She first says that she hopes you like the halters she made. And..." Victor points into the fence. 

Murdoc follows his finger. "What?" 

A wide grin breaks out on Noodle's face. "Oh, I didn't see that one hidden there!"

Then he sees it, beside Ofelia. "Is that...?"

"Yes, Ofelia gave birth to a baby boy this spring. He's called Paolo, after the football player." 

"You're a mum now?" Murdoc scratches her neck, a sudden feeling of excitement spiking through him. "Well, I guess that makes me an uncle, right? Hello! Your mum and I go way back."

"By the way, do they bite?" Russel asks. 

"No." Murdoc sits down in the grass. "If you look closely, you'll see they don't have any top teeth. But that doesn't mean you can make any sudden movements towards them if they don't know you. Wait for them to come to you, or you'll scare them off." 

The baby alpaca watches him from his mother's side. Murdoc smiles at him as he continues to feed the rest of the herd. He was getting used to waiting. A year had passed and he was still waiting to see the vibrant blue of his hair and to hear the rich emotion in his voice when he sang. He was waiting to feel the calloused yet delicate touch of his fingers on his skin. But he was learning that distance could also be a source of healing. He was prepared to provide the baby alpaca with all the time he needed to feel comfortable enough to approach him. 

"Hey, Muds," Russel says. "I'm gonna start out by saying that I don't mean this as an insult, okay? You seem...very chill in there. I feel like I'm in the Twilight Zone watching you. But it's cool. I like it." 

"He isn't the biggest fan of animals, and he isn't the best pet owner." Noodle is talking to Victor. "So this is, uh, new for us."

"It was a surprise for me as well," Victor says. "Murdoc wasn't any more fond of the animals here than back home, not at first. However, señora Murillo is grateful for the help he provided. He was very reliable, and he treated the animals well." 

As they talk, the baby alpaca begins walking toward him. Murdoc tries to remain focused on the other alpacas as he gets closer. "Thanks, mate," he says to Victor. "There you have it. I don't cock up everything."

"Hey, if we get to know them well enough, can we hang in the alpaca field with you?" Russel asks.

"No! Not if you're going to try to stuff them like you do every other animal you meet." 

"I only do that to animals after they're already dead." Russel turns to Victor. "Taxidermy." 

"They look so fuzzy." Noodle takes another picture. "I read that they use their wool for clothing." 

"We weave a lot of clothing from alpaca wool. I'll take you to the market tomorrow, and you can take a look at some of the garments. I have a few gifts for Murdoc that you can see as well if he chooses to open them tonight." 

The baby alpaca is right beside him now, watching him with curiosity. 

"Hey there," he says, brightening. Tentatively, he starts to pet his neck, his fingers curling around the tassels in his fleece. "Is this alright? How about mum?" He turns to the Ofelia, but she and the rest of the alpacas seem far more interested in the food in his pockets. "Hey, Victor," he says.

"Yes?" 

"Do you think I can...uh...pick him up?" He had seen señora Murillo and her family do it more times than he could count. Yet he had never held a baby alpaca on his own. 

"Of course you can, Murdoc."

"Ooooh, do it!" Noodle cheers excitedly. It had been a while since he has seen her that animated.

"Okay, here it goes." He scoops him up gingerly. "You alright there?" he asks again, still uncertain of himself in a care-giving role. 

Paolo looks at him, and then at the field from his new, elevated position. He remains unphased.

"Is this okay?" Murdoc asks him, even though he knows he can't respond. "You're in good hands here. Did you know that? Don't worry. I won't let Russ stuff you." 

"Really, Muds?" Russel rolls his eyes.

"How sweet!" Noodle exclaims. "He really seems to like you, Murdoc!" 

"He does?" Murdoc asks hopefully. "I mean, of course, he does. He's my little...uh...what's the word? Vica...vicu...?" 

"Vicuña," Victor says. 

"Vicuña." Murdoc sounds it out the best that he can. "How did that song you sang go again? Something about a vicuña from the mountains?" 

"Yo soy vicuñita y vengo de la Puna," Victor says. "Or, 'I am a vicuña and I come from the Puna.'"

_"I am a vicuña and I come from the Puna,"_ Murdoc sings, as softly as he can, to the alpaca. " _I am a vicuña and I come from the Puna."_

"Vengo escapando de los cazadores. 'I come, having escaped from the hunters." 

" _I come, having escaped from the hunters."_ His voice sounded rough and shaky as it always did, but right now, he doesn't care.

_"Ay guei vicuñita rishpi japi sonka,"_ Victor continues to lead him along. "Oh my, the little vicuna goes everywhere with all its heart." 

_"Oh my, the little vicuna goes everywhere with all its heart."_ He hugs the alpaca closer, feeling the fuzz fleece against his cheek. The hesitancy and frustration of the trip begin to fall off of him the way the alpaca's fleece did when they were sheared. He allows the joy he's feeling to find its way to his face. "Welcome to the world," he tells him. 

The baby alpaca was at the beginning of his life. There would be so much for him to see and learn, everything would be new. Murdoc remembers a time when 'new' used to scare him. But holding Paolo close, he tries to embrace the excitement he feels. They had both taken their first steps in the country on trembling legs, they were both finding their way, and they weren't doing it on their own.

"You're going to live a spectacular life," he says. "It's a big world, but you're ready." He cradles him there, and sings again, _"Oh my, the little vicuna goes everywhere with all its heart."_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for Anonymous reviewer, Heini, who requested the following: "I was wondering if you could write a short of the time when Stu comes back to Detroit? It was so nice to see them both take the time apart and grow on their own but it would be very nice to also see them after that."
> 
> Thank you for your request (if you remember making it at this point - asdjskaf I'm sorry!). You essentially inspired me to write chapter 27! Bless. If you read this as a standalone, please take note that they are are this point in their relationship after 250,000+ words of story (The Answer). They've come a long way! 
> 
> Warnings: sexual content

Stu doesn't know the words to the song playing on the radio, but that doesn't stop him from humming along awkwardly as if he does. His voice comes out hesitantly at first, a little off-key like water running through a rusty pipe. Eventually, he finds the range in which he's comfortable singing and sound flows through him clearly, filling the vehicle.

"Serves you right for disappearing off the face of the earth for two entire bloody years," Murdoc remarks. "You miss out on all the rubbish collection of sounds getting layered over one another and called 'music' these days. Better yet, you can't torture me with it."

He's driving and trying to keep a straight face, but inside, he's giddy. Stu was there with him. This wasn't a mirage or a dream. He was right there in the passenger seat, singing as if they hadn't just spent more than two years estranged. Murdoc can hardly take his eyes off of him, his heart hammering in his chest.

"I wouldn't get ahead of yourself," Stu says. "This was the station that came on when I turned the volume up. I think that says more about you than it does me." He reaches out to turn the dial.

"I've been using my phone in the car."

"Nah, you were listening to pop radio on purpose, weren't you?" The singer eyes him knowingly. "Trying to get an idea of what's popular? Listening to Ed Sheeran, your favorite?" 

Murdoc draws in a sharp breath. He's about to let him know _exactly_ what he thinks of Ed Sheeran. 

"Have you been writing, Muds?" Stu's tone of voice quickly changes from teasing to curious. "Is that what you were working out there?" 

They come to a stoplight, and Murdoc has time to take in all of him as he sits in the passenger seat. His eyes are, as always, drawn to the vivid blue that frames his face. Stu is a splash of color against an otherwise grey day. He's aged, he's cut his hair a little bit, and he may have gained some weight around his waist area, but his voice and his mannerisms are all the same. His eyes, black as they always were, pierce into him, punctuating his question. 

"I...er..." The car behind them honks at him to drive. "Oh, piss off!" he complains to the unknown driver. Once they've gotten through the intersection, he says, "I guess you could say that...You know the band is...uh..." 

"On hiatus," Stu says. 

"Hiatus?" 

"Well, I've come back, haven't I? We're all in the states now last I checked." 

His jaw drops, the words he had on the tip of his tongue, gone. Yesterday, he was living under the assumption that he would live out the rest of his days as a single man with a band that had broken up years ago. 

"You seem surprised." 

He tries to concentrate on the road. The man he had been so desperately in love with for the past three years had just come back into his life. That same man was implying that he wanted to continue writing and producing music. He could not, under any circumstance, crash his car. 

"Christ, Stu...you just got back today... _I_ still can't tell if I'm in some fugue stated or awake. We can't just - I mean...I'd love to, but...are you sure? Are you sure you even want to be back here with -" 

" _We could walk forever, walking on the moon_ ," Stu sings. " _We could be together, walking on, walking on the moon."_ He laughs. "That's bloody high. But see, I told you I'd find something." 

Murdoc exhales slowly. "Oh, believe me, I never doubted you."

"We aren't Englishmen in New York anymore, and we aren't, uh, on our own. And Sting isn't on his own either. He's with The Police on this track." Stu smiles at him. "It's a bit poetic, isn't it?" 

There was so much Murdoc wanted to ask him, so much Murdoc wanted to tell him. But those conversations would have to wait. 

More than anything, he wants to touch him. He's on him as soon as they get through the door. His arms wrap around him, his hands running up and down his back, into the grooves of his spine. The anxious side of him wants to make sure the singer is really there because if he wasn't, he would rather wake up now. He needs to feel all of him again, and he doesn't want to doubt. Sensing his unease, Stu's hands come up to cradle his face, pulling him closer so that he can kiss him. Murdoc lets his mouth fall open, welcoming him as he tries to guide them to a room, any room. 

They stumble through the living room, barely making it into Stu's bedroom. The singer's hands move lower down his body, groping his ass, his thighs. To Murdoc's surprised and thrill, he lifts him up briefly as he lowers him onto the bed, surprisingly careful in his movements relative to their shared urgency. 

" _Feet they hardly touch the ground, walking on the moon,_ " he sings before pressing his mouth against his again.

"I missed you and your bloody singing so much," Murdoc groans into the kiss.

Stu laughs. " _My feet don't hardly make no sound, walking on, walking on the moon._ "

There seems to be a shared understanding of what they both want that evening. Murdoc doesn't wait to pull his shirt over his head, and Stu is quick to unbutton his pants. They kiss until Murdoc feels drunk off of the sensation of his hands groping his chest, his hips, his ass, and the growing heat between his legs as the singer ruts into him. He shivers at the friction of the other man's arousal against his.

Stu sucks a trail of kisses down his neck, his hands fumbling with Murdoc's belt.

"Love," Murdoc groans. There was no denying it. Stu was real. The comforting weight of his body and heat of his breath on his skin was all the evidence he needed. "Slow down a bit, will you?" 

The singer's eyes are curious. "Slow down? Did I hear that correctly? Murdoc Niccals asking _me_ not to rush?" 

Murdoc laughs. "Strange, isn't it? I've got still got a couple of surprises in me." 

Stu studies him more closely, still confused. "You don't seem that drunk." 

"Had a few beers by the water." Murdoc hold's his face in his hands, keeping their eyes locked. "But it's not that. I want to savor every second of this..." He traces the curve of his mouth with his thumb, runs it along the blade of his jaw. Sweet Satan, he had missed him. He never wants to lose him again. 

He pulls the singer into another kiss, and they're lost again, writhing around with each other, pushing and pulling clothes aside until there's nothing left between them. Stu rolls over and pulls Murdoc into his lap. Murdoc devours his mouth hungrily, grinding down against him as the singer's hand falls lower down his back. His breath hitches when cups the curve of his ass.

Before they can get any farther, Murdoc pulls away.

"Where are you going?" Stu sounds confused. 

"We aren't fucking without lube," Murdoc mutters, reaching over to Stu's drawer. He returns quickly, straddling him, a bottle of lube in hand.

"Oh right." Stu chuckles nervously. "It's...uh, been a while. I didn't forget or anything, it just wasn't on my mind." His fingers return to his skin, ghosting up and down his thighs. Murdoc has to bite his lip to keep from groaning. It didn't _feel_ like it had been a while.

"And I wasn't sure if you wanted to...are you sure you want to?" 

" _Yes,_ Stu." Murdoc roots his head into his neck as the singer cautiously presses a slicked finger against his entrance. "Just...slowly..." He can feel his body quivering in anticipation. It had been some time for him as well, though he would never tell him. He kisses and nips at the singer's neck, both to encourage him and stop himself from trying to rush him. 

Stu's hands are their own beings. Despite the singer's vocalized uncertainty, his hands tend to him with confidence. One hand holds his hip, gently massaging the skin as he slips his finger inside. He gives Murdoc a few seconds to adjust to the intrusions before pressing in deeper. The bassist can't hold back his gasp when he brushes against his prostate. He begins to roll his hips against him, trying to taking more of him in. Stu's hands are as familiar as his own, he remembers them like yesterday.

"You're...okay," Stu says, seemingly in disbelief.

"Second surprised of the night, eh?" he pants into his collarbone, thighs quivering. "I can't remember the last time I felt this...this..." The heat keeps building in his body, the buzz of arousal leaving his dick aching. "Fuck..."

"Me neither," Stu says. "It's like I'm dreaming..." He shifts. "Can...I add another?" 

Murdoc grunts his assent. 

Stu presses a second finger in, and, at a frustratingly slow pace, begins to pump his fingers in and out. 

Murdoc lets out a small whine, arching towards him, his hips starting to rock faster. He allows the singer to unravel him there, to learn him from the inside out until he's open again. Impulsively, he lets his hand fall from Stu's shoulder to between his legs, stroking the singer's dick. The fingers inside him stroke and stretch until he loses language, and loses words. He's a sweaty, eager mess in the singer's lap. 

"Muds..." he pants. His hands move to his hips, holding them. "Can I...? Can you...?" 

Murdoc manages a nod and follows his lead, gripping his shoulders, lifting himself up. He lets the singer guide himself in as he lowers himself down, inch by inch. There's a familiar sting of being stretched that pulls another moan from his throat. Stu is attentive as he always is, rubbing circles on his lower back, leaving warm kisses along his neck and chest. 

"You look lovely, Muds," he says as he slowly takes all of him. "You're still a fit as I remember. You're beautiful. You're brilliant. You're...fuck," he gasps, his eyes glazing over, head swimming. "Shit..."

Murdoc's breathes heavily against him as he adjusts. He knows the singer is straining to keep from moving, and he plants kisses along the blade of his jaw in a silent thank you. 

"Muds..." Stu's about to go as mute as him. 

Murdoc answers by rolling his hips, eliciting a groan from the singer beneath him. He moves again and breathes out harshly, the sensation making his head spin. Stu's hands glide along his sides in a soothing rhythm. Murdoc can feel puffs of his breath against his ear as he babbles half-coherent phrases of flattery to him. He pulls the singer tight against him as he moves, the friction of his dick wedged between nearly sending him over the edge. Finally, his brain finds him a response. 

"Yes." 

And Stu comes alive. His long fingers press indents into the bare skin of his hips, gripping tighter and tighter with every thrust. Murdoc doesn't want those marks to leave his body. If he had his way, he would carry the feel of his hands, his teeth, all of him, for the rest of his life. He wants the singer around him, everywhere, limbs enveloping him the way the ocean envelopes the beach at high tide.

Stu seems to read his mind, rolling them over, so the Murdoc is folded against the mattress and headboard. He only takes a second to adjust before he's moving again, hitting his sweet spot again, and again, and again. 

Murdoc takes all of him, trying to pull him deeper with his legs. He feels the singer's fingers around his dick, tugging out a similar pace. Every touch the singer gives him sends warmth and sparks through his skin, pooling within him. There's a dull ache where they're joined, electricity with each thrust. Murdoc holds him, once again getting lost in the blue of his hair. Electric blue. Ocean blue.

"Muds...I..." His grip is becoming jerkier, his rhythm, uneven. All Murdoc can hear in his voice is _need._

He lets go, lets himself come apart as his heart pounds in his chest and throat, the sparks he felt on his skin now dancing along the black insides of his eyelids. Stu fucks him through it until he finds his own release. He collapses on him, panting. Then they lie there, threadbare and worn, sticky heat blossomed between them.

When his limbs feel less like jelly, Murdoc brings his hand up and ruffles Stu's hair. When the words return, he practices what he had been holding inside himself for so long, words he wasn't sure he would ever use again. He whispers them into locks of hair that tickle his nose.

"Love you."

The singer rustles, turns his head so that he can see his face. "I love you too, Muds." His voice is tired and satisfied. "I've still got it, haven't I?"

Murdoc feels his heart swell. Stu was real, and Stu was home. "Yeah, mate," he says. "You do."

* * *

For once, he wakes up earlier than Stu. The singer is a large, inert lump next to him in bed, snoring quietly. All that's visible is his hair against the pillow and the rise and fall of the blankets as he breathes. Lying on his side, Murdoc gazes at him, taking the sounds he makes, the warmth of his body heat, and the aches in his own body from their coupling the previous night.

"Hi, Muds." The singer has rolled over during his musing and gazes back at him, a sleepy grin on his face. "Were _you_ just watching _me_ sleep?" 

Murdoc can feel the heat rushing to his face and turns his face towards the ceiling. 

"It's alright if you were. Do you see how it can be fun now?" 

"It's not..." The longer Stu keeps his eyes on him, the more flustered he becomes. "Two years," he says. "It's been over two bloody years, and I...thought you were gone."

Stu's face softens. 

Murdoc can feel his hands gripping the sheets tightly. "I can hardly believe you're in front of me now."

"Well, I am." Stu moves closer to him, close enough that their noses brush against each other. Another few inches closer and their lips are touching. He kisses him. "Hello." Another awkward, charming grin. Then, a grimace. "That was bloody workout you gave me last night. I didn't think I would feel it in the morning, but..." 

"Got a bit overexcited?" Murdoc smirks.

"I guess I was...How are you feeling?" Stu is suddenly troubled. "I should have thought about that more. Did I hurt you?"

Murdoc rolls his eyes. "You're always sore after a good workout. Unlike you, I was fully committed to the decision from the second you set foot in my car. I'm not made of porcelain."

"But you're...old...er...older." 

Murdoc knew Stu well enough to know he didn't mean to offend. The remark still earned the singer a glare. "You are too," he says.

"That's, uh, also true." Stu yawns. "Arguing about this is a bit stupid, isn't it?"

"I'll say." Murdoc sighs, letting the tension that had been building, leave his body. "We're waking up next to each other after an epic night of passion, and you're checking in with me. I'm just, er, getting defensive...old habits die hard." 

His response leaves Stu quiet at first. "Was that...an apology?" he eventually asks. 

"Yeah? I guess you could think of it like that." 

Stu kisses him again, leaving him breathless. "We've got a lot to catch up on," he says as they break apart. 

Murdoc blinks. "You're bloody right we do. Why did you come back?" The initial shock of Stu's return was starting to wear off. Now, he was anxious for answers. 

"Because I wanted to," he says. He rests his hand against his cheek.

"Wanker. That can't be all it is." Murdoc frowns at him. But keeping that expression proves to be a challenge as Stu continues to work his fingers through his hair. It had been years, and Stu hadn't lost his ability to know exactly where to touch him so that all the tension in his body dissolve.

"How about some breakfast?" He also ignores his comment. "I'm hungry." 

Lost in his caresses, Murdoc doesn't press the issue any further. 

Once they get to the kitchen, Murdoc wastes no time setting his place at the table. He places a box of Cheerios on the table along with a bowl and a spoon. It's going perfect until he gets to the refrigerator. "Shit," he says. "I haven't got any of that fake milk you drink." He sighs, disappointed. "But it isn't like you gave me a heads up..." 

This time, Stu is the one staring. "I'm surprised you've got any food at all." His eyes land on the cereal on the table. "And you remembered what I like to eat...Muds." For the first time since he's arrived, he gazes at Murdoc with an awestruck look in his eyes. Murdoc nearly buckles under their intensity, the unspoken questions, the barely contained emotions. 

"You were on my mind every day," he admits. "I _counted_ , Stu. I've had you on my mind like I'm some teenage girl pining over her first boyfriend." 

Stu laughs. "Missed me, huh?"

"I missed you, I missed your cock, I even missed your stupid jokes...I missed - " He pauses, cheeks burning red again once he realized what he's said out loud. "Christ. I just inflated your ego another into the stratosphere..." 

"You like me," Stu teases. 

"Of course I like you, you tosser. I _love_ you. I always have...and I never stopped." 

His words seem to change the atmosphere in the kitchen. Stu is frozen for a few moments. Then he pulls out the chair and sits. "Can you tell me everything?" he asks quietly. "I'd like to know everything." 

"Well, alright," Murdoc says before turning back to the counter to fix his plate. "Since you asked nicely." 

* * *

"Everything" doesn't begin to come out until later that evening. 

They're sitting on the couch in the living room while the television drones in the background. They were supposed to be watching a zombie movie marathon that Stu wanted to watch, but he's looking everywhere but the television.

"Was that chair here before I left?" He points to a wooden rocking chair in the corner. 

"Nope. Found it in one of those empty lots downtown. Someone had dumped it there, I guess. Whoever it was, they were probably a bit touched in the head. You'd have to be to toss a hand-crafted piece of furniture like that." 

"Did you buy all those books?" Stu's already onto the bookshelf, and then the coffee table. "Have you been keeping up the whole house on your own? Did you pick out that rug? Where did you find all of those?" He's referring to the assortment of old signs sitting in the corner of the room. They were a result of a habit he formed while out on walks. If something caught his eye, he would take it home. Often, it was some sort of metal or an electronic. Murdoc would spend time taking apart what he found. Some things he kept, others he sold, others he threw away. Over time, he had formed a collection of a certain kind of screw, old cell phones, and more. The signs were a particularly noticeable collection.

_Murdoc's a bit like a magpie,_ he remembers Stu saying in one of their interviews. The singer hadn't been too off base.

Stu eventually focuses on the assortment of papers, folders, and pictures Murdoc hadn't had time to clean off. They were currently doubling as placemats for their dinner and empty cans of beer. "Who's that bloke laughing with you?" 

"Christ, mate, give me a moment to catch up." Murdoc gulps. 

"Sorry. I guess I forgot to really look at the house until right now." His eyes flick idly around the room. "You just keep surprising me. I mean, you always had a way of keeping me guessing but, uh, this time it's all good guessing...I think." 

"Were you surprised to find a house to come back to?" Murdoc chuckles.

"Uh, a little bit, yeah," he says. 

"I got on just fine for thirty years before I met you."

"Before you crashed a car into my face, you mean..." His dark eyes are on him again, bearing down on him. After all their time apart, there were still some things that couldn't be forgotten. Murdoc isn't surprised, but the realization stings. He was working so hard to stop putting himself down in his head. He didn't want to fall back into his old patterns of thinking so soon, and Stu's ostensibly light-hearted jab wasn't helping. 

"Anyhow, I was, uh...really worried about leaving you, you know that," Stu says softly. He blinks, and the resentment disappears. "That's all I'm trying to say."

"Well, as you can see, I'm doing okay. I haven't crashed my car into anyone else's face." He imagines himself placing the memories of his drinking, his anger, and his terrible decisions into a guitar case and shoving that case under his bed. "That bloke you see me laughing with over there is Reggie from AA. We're chummy." 

Stu laughs, "Oh? So tell me about this _Reggie from AA_. Did you exchange numbers?"

Murdoc raises an eyebrow. "What are you getting at? Of course, we did. It's AA. He's a good guy, born and raised in Detroit. His grandfather was a preacher, and he grew up playing the organ at his church. I think you'd like him, actually. He also goes to the same ASCA group that I do."

"ASCA?" 

Murdoc inhales, closes his eyes, tries to prepare himself. "Adult survivors of child abuse. That's when we really hit it off. It's nice to have someone you can say 'hey, mate, you're just as fucked up as I am' to." He exhales, feels his shoulders relax. "He's about ten years ahead of me thought. I've been thinking about asking him to help me find a sponsor...eventually...when I'm ready." He gulps. "I'm not ready yet." He was still struggling to see a path to full sobriety. He hadn't even stopped drinking yet. "I still say this talk about being powerless in the face of your addiction is a load of bollocks. We may not control our entire destiny, but we manage a good bit of it...But we aren't dating if that's what you wanted to know." 

"I was just joking with you," Stu says. "I wouldn't have if I knew all that. We don't have to keep talking about it if you don't want to."

"It's alright," Murdoc says. He notices how happy he looks in the picture. It had been taken during his first year in the group, one year after he had said goodbye to his mother. He had spent half the day there. Though he never mentioned her, they welcomed him, and he managed to forget about his alcohol cravings for the duration of his visit. 

"Have you been?" Stu asks. "Dating, I mean..."

Murdoc shakes his head. "Not lately. At AA, they tell us to avoid starting any new relationships when we're at the beginning of our recovery." Before Stu can question him further, he wraps his arm around his shoulders and gives him a reassuring squeeze. "But that doesn't change anything about us. You're not a new relationship, and I'm still drinking." 

The singer breathes a sigh of relief. "Did you...date anyone? It won't change anything I've just...been thinking about it. On the plane over, I was imagining you married with kids or engaged, or both." 

"Scary thought?"

"Yeah."

"You're overestimating me." He winces when he thinks back to his attempts to date. "I did make a few grand entrances into the world of dating apps, but I was shit at it." 

"Murdoc? The sex god? Bad at dating?" Stu teases. 

"Yup." 

His short answer alarms the singer. "It was, uh, that bad? I don't mean to pry..." 

"It's hard to get taken seriously when you've spent your entire career turning shagging into and identity," he says. "That's all people thought I wanted. I could spend the entire date engaged in intellectual conversation, and they would still try to initiate a quickie the public restroom or get handsy underneath the table. I almost got strangled in an alleyway." He doesn't like to remember that experience. "You and I both know I fancy myself to be a bit adventurous, but apparently, I don't know how to get to know someone first. And they don't know how to get to know me."

"That doesn't mean you're bad at dating, it means all of those people are creeps, Muds. It sounds like you were doing just fine. If someone kicks off because you just want to talk on the first date, then that's their loss." Stu's hand finds the back of his head. Murdoc can feel his fingers thread through his hair, gently massaging him.

"The most mental part of it all is that I still slept with some of them," Murdoc says quietly. "It never did anything for me...But some nights I'd be so lonely..." He sighs and internally berates himself for saying that out loud. Stu didn't need to know about every bad night he had. 

Stu studies his face. "I'm not mad at you if that's what you're worried about," he says. "You were figuring yourself out, and you're allowed to do that. The only person who decides what you want at any given moment is you."

Murdoc leans into his touch. "I know, Stu, been over it in therapy ad nauseam." 

"Therapy?"

"Yes, therapy. I started going a few months after you left. It was a right pain in my arse for a while after that. But I've stuck with it. The laundry list of support groups I go to help too." 

"Was that hard?"

"Probably the second scariest thing I've done after that demon my father sent after me." Instinctively, he moves closer to Stu, using his presence to ground himself. "But...you were right. After I found the right person, I was finally able to, well, talk about everything, and not just to my therapist. I'm trying to talk about it more. I talked a bit about my dad at an AA meeting. I've kept in touch with Ace and Victor back at home. I'm still working up to it in the ASCA group, and the rape survivor group, and the grief group..." He fidgets, then jokes, "Christ, I'm a bloody basket case. The FBI probably has me on one of their watch lists."

"You're not, Muds. They have those groups because they help people."

"I know, I know. I guess what I'm getting at is this: it's not going to be just the two of us this time." He finds himself hugging the singer tighter. "It's not going to be all on you. You were right about that, too. In a way, that's how you could say I spent my time while you've been away. It's been a series of experiences that end with me acknowledge that yes, that dullard Stuart Pot was right." 

The fingers in his hair pause as Stu digests his words. After a while, he says, "Last time I saw you, you were crapping your pants at the thought of seeing a therapist. You probably would have thrown a fit if I brought up going to a group. I'm proud of you, Muds. I hope you're proud of yourself, too."

"I am," he says, turning his head towards him and placing a quick kiss on his neck. "And I love you." 

The movie is forgotten as they spend the next hour kissing. Between kisses, he tells Stu about his trips to Peru and New York. He tells him about the time he spent going for drives with Russel and trying to learn some more advanced yoga techniques with Noodle (something else that Stu had been right about). He even tells him a little bit about his therapist, and what he's been working on. 

"I've got my own journal now," he says. His head rests on Stu's shoulder. He twirls a strand of the singer's hair on his finger while his other hand rests on his arm. "I find it a bit easier to _write_ than to _say_ , if you catch my drift, always has been for me. Sometimes I take it to appointments and spend the hour reading what I wrote that week. At first, my therapist wasn't so chuffed because I didn't leave time for us to 'process' it at the end of the hour, but he realized soon enough that we wouldn't have gotten anywhere as quickly as we did if I hadn't been able to use it." 

"See, I told you the journal would work," Stu says. "I can tell. You seem a lot more...comfortable."

"Oh, I made a point of it to fix that mess. I'm still not perfect, but I'm not trying to kill every person who taps me on the shoulder like I used to. Once I got better at calming myself down, I discovered the wonders of massage therapy, really got me used to all the grabbing that happens when we shag, and in life." His progress moved at a glacial pace, but he was getting better at understanding how nonsexual touching could be good. While he still had his difficult moments, he no longer assumed every stranger wanted to hurt him. Since Stu had left, Murdoc had let a doctor examine him for a physical. He didn't avoid hugs or shoulder taps. In return, he began to feel more connected to the world around him. 

"Couldn't get my massage off your mind, huh?" 

"I guess not. So you really did have all the answers all along. Why didn't you tell me?" 

"Do you remember yourself back then, Muds? I couldn't tell you anything. No one could. Your mum could have appeared in front of you and told you to listen to me, and you probably would have called her a wanker too." 

"And she would have deserved it for making me trek across three bloody continents!" Murdoc turns so that he's facing the singer. "But enough about me. You've been avoiding this long enough. It's your turn now. What lessons did you learn, oh wise one? What brought you back from the faraway land of India?"

"I, uh, flew in from England, actually," Stu says.

Murdoc furrows his brow in confusion. "What were you doing in England?" 

"I was living at home." Stu runs his hand along the seam of his pants, twisting at the ridges of fabric that gather where his knee bends. "With my mum."

"That sounds nice." From looking at him, Murdoc can't tell why he seems so preoccupied. "You look a bit troubled."

"Well..." 

"Spit it out." He's growing impatient. "I think we can both agree that we aren't passing any judgment on each other. Whatever happened is over." He waits a bit before rolling his eyes and adding, "Let me guess, you dated too." 

"I was living with her...sort of," Stu says. "Before breaking up and coming home, that is." 

The admission causes his stomach to drop, and his hands to freeze. It's a fight to keep the casual smile on his face. His effort is commendable, but when he sees Stu's expression go from nervous to apologetic, he knows it isn't enough. 

"I guess that makes it a bit awkward now," he begins. 

"No." He tries to recover quickly. "I'm just gawking at this classic case of projection. You get your knickers in a twist over Reggie from AA, when _you're_ the one who's been hiding a secret relationship. You're taking your fear about seeing someone and placing them on me, assuming that I'm the one who's been hiding something. In case your tired brain cells didn't retain the information: I've been going to therapy." 

"It isn't a secret if I'm telling you." The singer leans forward, takes his glass of beer off of the coffee table, and gulps down a drink. "And I'm glad to hear you haven't caught dementia yet." 

"You don't 'catch' dementia, Stu. And my mind is still as sharp and brilliant as it's ever been. It's probably sharper now that I've banished a demon and spent a couple years 'healing.'" He's relieved that the singer hasn't tried to ask him about his feelings because currently, he doesn't know how to describe them. "But that's beside the point. Why do you think you think it's awkward? So you had a fling while you were away, it's no big deal. You're back, aren't you? Why don't you, er, tell me about her..." But they aren't pleasant, even though they have no reason to be. 

Stu studies him. "Well, alright..."

"What was her name? Where did you meet?" He just wants him to start talking so he can attempt to sort out what's going on in his mind and body. 

"Adélaide," he says. "Adélaide _Boucher._ " He draws out her last name in an exaggerated French accent as if he wants to make Murdoc laugh. "We met at the meditation retreat." 

"How romantic." How _Stu_. "Did she whisk you away to her farm in the French countryside?" 

"Actually, she grew up in Delaware. We all called her Addy." 

"Whatever."

"And she didn't speak much French at all, but her grandparents own a restaurant in Paris. We visited last spring, and I tried that dish with the snail eggs." He pauses to scan Murdoc's face again. "She, uh, had just finished up her residency at the Cleveland Clinic and was taking a gap year. Her parents were peeved, but she said 'fuck them,' and went anyway. It always seemed like she didn't care about what anyone thought. She didn't even shave her armpits! I thought that was kind of gross at first, but then, later on, I decided I didn't care because I was so fond of her. She reminded me of you a bit...maybe that's why I liked her so much." 

His heart thumps in his chest, and he focuses on his hand resting on Stu's arm. No words come. 

"But anyhow, we got on so well at the retreat that she invited me to join her...just for the next stop at first. I didn't think it was going to turn into anything serious..."

"Had she heard of us?" Murdoc asks. 

"Do you mean had she heard of Gorillaz, or do you mean had she heard of, uh, _us_?" 

"Both." 

Stu nods. "She remembered us from the iPod commercial - do you remember that one? The one with all the people dancing with their headphones?"

"Of course, I do, it was my idea." 

"Well, that's how she knew us. She approached me in the dining hall one morning and said, 'you're the part of that group in the iPod commercial.' That was the first thing she said to me." A different kind of haze seems to fall over his eyes as he gazes at the TV. It's as if he was watching the memory of their first encounter playing on the screen, and not the zombie movie. "And the first thing I thought about was you, and how that would tick you off. But then I thought about how nice it was to not be recognized, and I thought, 'this is nice.'" 

"So what was this, so act of rebellion against me?" Murdoc can feel himself souring by the moment. 

"I didn't think of it that way at the retreat but, after a few months, it started feeling that way."

"A few months?" He doesn't want to know the answer, but he can't stop himself from asking. "How long were you with her?" 

Stu looks from him to his hand in his lap. The guilt returns to his expression, but this time Murdoc doesn't reassure him. It wasn't rational for him to feel as much dread and betrayal as he does, but he can't reason the emotion away. It eats away at the imaginary wall of distress tolerance he's learned to build in himself, and if he was to reassure the singer right now, he would be lying to him. He can't predict how he's going to react. 

Stu sighs in defeat. "One year." 

It's longer than he wanted it to be, but not as long as it could have been. At least it hadn't been two years. At least he was spared the burden of feeling like a rebound. 

"Right," he says, not noticing how his hands withdraw and his eyes lower.

But the singer does, and he reacts, turning his hand so that it's wrapped around Murdoc's. "We don't have to talk about all of this now. How about we pick it up tomorrow?" 

"Did you love her?"

Stu almost shrinks away from his gaze. "I, uh, maybe...maybe I did sometimes...a little bit." 

When he swallows, his throat feels tight. He can't pick apart his thoughts. 

"Maybe we should..."

"Yeah," he says, barely a whisper. "I need a minute...Just me." He stays there, quiet on the sofa until Stu leaves.

* * *

The minute turns into the rest of the afternoon. The singer approaches him at dusk while he's in the back yard smoking a cigarette.

"Hey," he says.

Their neighborhood had seen little development in the past five years. The yard still opened out to a long stretch of grass, still had the same tall oak tree growing there. It was still cluttered with old junk, some of it the remains of projects Stu was working on before he left. Walking through the yard was like walking through a time machine. More recently, it had become one of Murdoc's preferred places to go when he wanted to write or think. 

Murdoc lets his arm hang, cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers. He glances back at him. "Hey." The sky was a gradient of red, purple, and deep blue above them. When he pushes the smoke out through his lungs, it floats towards it in thin wisps. He imagines his worries, resentments, and everything else inside him that was bad, leaving his body along with it.

"Just wanted to check on you." The singer rocks on his heels, forward and then backward. He was older now, with more of a hunch and thinning hair, but his nervous ticks hadn't changed. 

"You didn't do anything wrong," Murdoc says. "That's an indisputable fact. The problem here is me." It was always easier when he said things out loud, even if he didn't think they made any sense. With practice, he realized that even if he didn't know, the person listening could often guide him towards some insight. It made him less impulsive.

"I thought you might feel bad," Stu says. "We went from talking about all your terrible dates to me telling you I might have fallen in love again, even if it was just for a little while." 

Murdoc cringes, the words cutting into him like one of Stu's flick-knives. His reaction tells him everything he needs to know. 

"But I don't think that makes you a problem." 

"I guess I'd like to think I could have gotten on by myself, too," Murdoc says. "That I could have met someone and been normal on my own instead of spending ninety-percent of my week in some form of therapy." He brings the cigarette back to his mouth, inhales. "I haven't come that far. Outside of my groups, I haven't attracted one person to me that hasn't been a bloody pervert or criminal or social climber. It's as if I've got an invisible sign on me inviting them in." 

"It wasn't easy for me either," Stu says. "Leaving you behind was one of the hardest things I've had to do in my life." 

Murdoc holds those words in his heart, lets them temper his negative thoughts like ointment on a burn. 

"I cried for nearly the entire plane ride, worse that my mum did when I passed year eight. The blokes in the seats behind me were laughing the entire time. But I was so worried about what would happen to you." He smiles. "I don't know how you can stand here and say you didn't get on by yourself." 

"How did you do it?" What stings, he decides, is the realization that Stu was so far ahead of him. "I couldn't get out of bed for weeks." 

"And I didn't think I could go through a whole retreat, but when I got to my room, I noticed a quote from Buddha hanging on the wall. Then it all became clear to me." Without expanding on his statement, Stu pulls out his phone and starts scrolling. 

"Oh, how polite of you." 

"Hold on." Stu walks over to him. "I just forgot what it said, so I had to look it up." Seconds later, his eyes light up. 

"Did you find it?" 

"No, but I wanted to show you this too." He thrusts the phone into Murdoc's face. It's a picture of Stu, sitting in the middle of a dusty trail, looking sunburnt and dirty. He sports a pair of sunglasses and his New Orleans Saints baseball cap. Murdoc might have softened at that detail if it wasn't for the thick beard the singer had drawing all his attention. 

"I can practically smell you from here." 

"I hiked the entire El Camino de Santiago, decided to let my beard grow. I wanted to go for the same look Tom Hanks had in _Castaway._ It was just like the movie too, being out in the wilderness, except I look better with a beard...And I wasn't alone. Oh, and we also stayed in a hostel every night."

"And Tom Hanks didn't fuck Wilson." 

"Uh...that too."

"I mean...that's great Stu...You look happy." He can't decide if he wants to be sarcastic or not, so his words come out wooden and hesitant. 

Stu doesn't seem to be paying attention anyway. He takes his phone back quickly and resumes his search. "Okay, here it is. 'No one saves us but ourselves. No one can, and no one may. We, ourselves must walk the path.' That's what I read on my wall the first day I got there. And I thought, 'this is what Murdoc was trying to tell me.' It was weird because, for a second, I thought you were wiser than Buddha." 

"Not a compliment I'd expect, but I'll embrace it." 

"You're not wiser than Buddha. Anyhow, I realized that the best way to help you was to let you have a go at life by yourself. The same went for me. I couldn't rely on what we had to save me either..." As if for the first time, he notices Murdoc's cigarette. "By the way, could I have one of those?" 

Murdoc reaches for the pack in his pocket and holds it out wordlessly. 

"I decided then, that I would spend to retreat trying to keep you off my mind." Stu has his own lighter. He's clumsy with it; runs his thumb along the sparkwheel once, and a flame brightens, then disappears. He tries again, and the flame holds. "It wasn't because I wanted to, but because I knew I'd cave in and come home if I thought about you too much. Plus, I hadn't heard anything from you, so I assumed you were getting on just fine. I thought you would have taken a piss out of me for the rest of our lives if I didn't outlast you." 

"No, Stu, you've got it all wrong. I would have wept tears of joy into your arms if you came back. I had myself convinced I'd lost you." Speaking it out loud brings back all the immobilizing sorrow he felt during the first weeks of separation. "It wouldn't have been what we said, but going back on my word has never been a challenge for me..." 

"It would have been easier," Stu says. "I thought about what you told me about waking up in the river. I tried to think about it that way like I was going through my own rebirth...sort of. I know it's not the same, but it helped me. You helped me through that, even though you weren't there. It was sort of like when you pull all the knobs and key contacts off a keyboard's circuit board. All that's left is the board. I wasn't 2D anymore. I didn't have to be Stuart Pot either...It was a clean slate." 

"Just like you always wanted."

"Yeah," Stu agrees. "And it was lovely for a bit. I never imagined myself finishing a month-long hike, or growing my beard out, or rafting down a river, or eating a tarantula. I didn't sing for almost the entire trip, and I was with someone who was so bloody excited about everything we did. She didn't care that I practically invited myself to go on her gap year with her. I found out later that it was because she liked me back."

"So if leaving was everything you imagined, then what brought you back...here?" His home and everything he thought he had accomplished feels so insignificant next to the singer's experience. But he doesn't want to dance around the topic any longer. "Life with me isn't what you'd call...peaceful. You go on a gap year with me, and you're likely to lose a limb or your soul; you might get chased by a demon from hell." 

Stu smiles and shakes his head. He takes a puff of his cigarette and blows the smoke into the air, staring at it as it floats away. "After a while, I wasn't sure if I was actually in love with her, or if I was in love with the experience she gave me. Once I started meeting her family, I started getting annoyed. At first, I thought I was being an arse because she wasn't doing anything wrong. But once I got to know her beyond meditation and yoga, I didn't think there was much to, uh, know, if that makes any sense. And besides, I'm sure gap years with you are much safer now. You banished your demon to the underworld somewhere." 

Murdoc laughs. "Are you trying to say she wasn't deep enough for you?" 

" _No,_ well, perhaps. I realized I was the one doing most of the talking, telling her my life story and my opinion on everything. She never told me to shut up like you do. At first, that's how I wanted it, I think. Then I started asking her things because I felt like I didn't know her. But actually, there just wasn't a lot to her that I could relate to. Everything had been so easy for her. Her parents were paying for her entire gap year." He huffs, like a child, angry because they couldn't stay up an extra hour past their bedtime. "She was also tone-deaf, and we couldn't sing together...she didn't have much interest in music, she wasn't interested in my songs or anything about my time in Gorillaz. Before I knew it, an entire year had passed, and her family knew me, and she was talking about buying a house..." 

The silence that follows is heavy. Murdoc listens to the sounds around them, the dull rumble of an engine when a car struggles to speed down their street, the chorus of crickets in the tall weeds he had allowed to grow tall in the yard. He was surrounded by things that needed work. He was probably the one who needed the most work of all. Stu might not have found the substance he wanted in Addy, but she could have erased everything if he wanted her to. "Sounds like everything you wanted," he says. He drops his cigarette, stamps it out in the dirt. 

"It was," Stu says. 

Murdoc folds his arms, rubs his hands along them as if he was chilly. It was something he had gotten used to over the years, comforting himself. In the beginning, he would pretend it was Stu, later his mother. 

"And I was so close to having it," the singer continues. "But it wasn't what I wanted anymore. I remembered what you said about wanting and needing. It was an afternoon in July when I did. We had just finished lunch at her parent's house and I was doing the dishes." 

"What did I say?" 

"You said you didn't need me, but you wanted me." His dark eyes glisten. Murdoc wonders if it's from the light from the sky or because he's tearing up. " _You,_ Murdoc Niccals, said that to me and meant it. You said you would always be there, for however long it took. I hadn't thought about you for months, but that afternoon you came back to me like we had that conversation yesterday. I even thought I saw you out of the corner of my eye. It was a bit spooky. But that was the day I knew I couldn't stay. She wanted a home and a family. I didn't want kids. I've _never_ wanted kids. I had to ask myself, 'Stu, what are you doing, mate?'" 

"So I haunted you back to me, eh?" He tries to shrug off the emotional weight of the conversation with a joke.

"This happened a year before I came home," Stu says. "So, no. I didn't know what I wanted. I knew what I _didn't_ want, but after that, I was stumped. Leaving Addy was hard, too, but I'll spare you that whole story. You were on my mind for a bit, but I, uh, wasn't ready. If I could remember you that well, then it meant that I hadn't left you behind enough. So I moved back with my mum."

Murdoc tries to recall what he was doing one year ago. He had just returned from his first trip back to Peru with Russel and Noodle. No more than a month later, they had left, and he started branching out from AA and was a few meetings into his ASCA group, another painful beginning. Those hours were spent slouched in his chair, avoiding eye contact with everyone. Russel and Noodle had moved out, and he had been lonely, but stubborn in his resolve to succeed in his promises. Still, he had days where he felt hopeless, where he nearly fell into back into his pattern of multi-day benders. If Stu had returned then, he surely would have left again. 

"And I spent a year living with her, feeling a bit like a loser even though everyone knew who I was, and didn't judge me for being forty-seven and living with my mum." He chuckles to himself. "But the progression felt...right. In the first year, I practiced forgetting about you. The second year, at home, I practiced hating you and forgetting you. It was strange at first, just letting myself be angry, but I realized I wouldn't be able to truly forget you if I didn't let my anger out. But don't worry, it's mostly gone now."

"Mostly," Murdoc repeats. "I'll take it." 

"Because it's about wanting. I want to keep working on what we had...A few months ago, I noticed I hadn't been feeling so angry lately. You had been off my mind again, and my life was peaceful. Coming back to you...well, there was nothing spectacular about the decision. It wasn't like _The Notebook,_ or whatever other romance movies you pretend you don't like, but actually do." 

"An artist needs to be in tune with the beauty in the world to sharpen his craft, mate. I'm enough of a man to admit that I appreciate the tragedy of human relationships and a love of Rachel McAdams." 

"And none for Ryan Gosling?"

Murdoc shrugs. "Not my type. Never liked his beard." 

Stu frowns.

"But anyhow, go on..." 

"I thought I'd stay with my mum up until the week before I left. Life at home was a bit boring, but I was happy. But you kept creeping back into my head. I wanted to know how you were. You were my best mate on and off for twenty years. I fell in love with you! I watched you fall apart and come together in my arms!" 

He feels red blooming in his cheeks, his blood pulsing through him at a steady beat. "Is that Stu I hear talking? Or is this some bloke trying out for _The Notebook 2_?"

"I 'm being serious, Muds. It dawned on me how mental we were to just cut one another off forever. I had given my other dreams an earnest go: the Stu who went off and had a family, the Stu who never left home...See, I have lots of Stuarts in my head now too, just like you and your other Murdoc." 

"That's, er, not a good thing." 

"It was for me. Anyhow, I wanted to see you. I was curious, I was worried, I wanted to gloat if it made sense to. I _missed_ you. But to be frank, I didn't come back expecting to get back together. My therapist and I used to talk a lot about letting go of expectations, so that's what I did. The relationship might end, or it might continue, but either way, there would be a conclusion. And that's what I wanted: closure." 

"Did you get what you wanted?" 

"I got a hold of Noodle first. She had a lot of questions, but I told her we would talk later. She told me you were still living in Detroit, and that you were doing okay." 

"That's it? That's all she said?" He checked in with her at least once a month by phone. It wasn't unusual for them to talk for an hour or two.

"Yeah," Stu says. "I think she was peeved I didn't want to talk longer, but her answer only made me more nervous. That was when what I wanted became more obvious. I was fretting over you for the entire plane ride to Detroit. What if you had someone else living with you? What if you had burned the house to the ground like you did Kong? What if you were dead?" 

"Give me some credit, Stu." 

"It all disappeared when I heard your voice." The wind blows and the leaves of the oak tree dance. "Have you felt so much at once that it was like you being resuscitated out of, uh, I don't know, death, maybe. It was like all the colors around me seemed stronger, like I had more life in me. I could feel how long you had been missing me in the one word you spoke." 

Murdoc stares back at him. "I felt that too. That's a bang on description of it." 

"Like it was 'right.'" Stu smiles. 

"Bet you were happy to find the house in one piece."

"I was happy to find _you_ in one piece." 

"And no bird or bloke occupying your old bedroom." Murdoc laughs. "Did I surprise you?" 

"Yeah," Stu admits. "You're surprising me a lot, but they're all good surprises. And, uh, I know this still isn't going to be perfect, but I want you in my life."

Something is vitalizing about hearing those words in person and not in a daydream. They hit him hard like heavy raindrops on an arid desert. 

"I think I can say that without any doubt now. I don't know if you can see it yet, but what you've done is incredible, Muds. And I'm so - " 

Murdoc cuts him off with a sudden, tight hug. He smashes his nose against his chest and squeezes him, perhaps because he doesn't want Stu to see how wet his eyes are. They soak his shirt and make it obvious anyway. 

The singer's arm folds around him in return while the other continues to hold his cigarette. They stand there until Murdoc loosens his grip enough so that he can see him again. He kisses him, gently at first. Stu moves with him, tongue sliding lazily against his. He feels the singer's hand trace the ridges of his spine until it reaches the nape of his neck and groans as it massages him. With a pleased sigh, he rests his head on his shoulder, content to hold him there for the rest of the night. "Thank you," he says softly. "I'm so happy you're here, mate. I haven't got all the words to say so at the moment, but I hope you understand." 

Stu ruffles his hair. "No need to apologize. You've been clearer with me during these past twenty-four hours than you have in the entire twenty years we've known each other." He laughs. 

"Touché," he says. The singer could win that exchange. He was happy to be leaning against him.

"Pretty sky," Stu remarks. 

They stand there together for another few minutes.

After a while, they separate. Murdoc glances at the sky, and then back to his feet. It reminds him of a stop they made during his search. "Do you remember when you tried to take us camping, and you tried to woo me with that awful pickup line? Something about me being a star in the sky?" He laughs. "How many birds did that one work on?" 

"A few," Stu says. "But you were the only one who sucked my cock by the end of the night." A smirk. 

"At least I know how to last more than two minutes." 

Stu's face goes from cocky to flustered. "It was more than two minutes!" 

"It's okay, I understand. You were overwhelmed. Experiencing the real thing blew all of your fantasies out of the water." 

Stu chuckles. "Just admit it." They're standing so close their arms are brushing. "You liked what I said that night. If it hadn't gotten to you, you wouldn't remember it now. You liked me a lot for the entire trip. Even when you were screaming at me, telling me that I'd never see you again, you liked me." 

"Again with the 'liking.'" Why was Stu so fixated on it? Murdoc can feel the familiar swell in his chest, rising into his throat, calcifying. "I liked you longer than that," he says quietly. "There. Happy?" 

"You didn't show it much," Stu says.

That, Murdoc can't allow him to say without protest. "Stu, I was -"

"It wasn't the time, I know. That's why I never said anything then. I didn't want to make it more complicated for you...I almost chickened out of telling you I loved you in the hotel that one day." His cigarette has burned down to no more than a few inches. Still, Stu holds onto it. "But it's been a few years, and I guess it's nice to hear it from you now, to know you remember." 

"Of course, I remember," Murdoc says. "It all mattered, every second of it."

"Can you promise me that you'll talk to me more? And not just if I'm being daft. Tell me what you're thinking, and when you appreciate me, and when you're upset and why. There are times when you seem like an extension of me, like an extra finger or my favorite pair of socks, but I don't want to rely on just my instinct. And I want to know you...as much as possible." 

Yeah, mate." Murdoc smiles at him. "I can do that. But be careful what you wish for, because now that you've given me the go-ahead I may never shut up." The nervous feeling in his stomach doesn't go away, but it doesn't cripple him like it used to. "But only if you tell me the entire Addy story, eventually. Did she cry when you put an end to your year-long, romantic, getaway?"

Stu snorts. "Oh, come on." 

"Did you ever let her stick anything up your arse?" 

"Bloody hell, Muds." The singer is exasperated. 

"Too soon?" 

"How do you go from freezing up at the mere mention of her existence, to wanting to know how we shagged?" 

He can tell that it's too soon. "I want to _know you,"_ he teases. "I want to know the new and improved Stu."

"Wanker," Stu mutters. "I don't know about improved or new, perhaps evolved...enlightened, maybe."

"Oh, so now you're the bloke who's wiser than Buddha."

"Do you think you'll show me what you've been writing anytime soon?" Stu's staring at the sky as if he's reading words etched in the shadowy blue around the stars.

His question is sudden, but not as surprising as when he brought it up in the car. "It isn't out of the question," he says. "You know I've always let you get the first look at my lyrics...could be like old times." 

The corners of his mouth turn upwards. "I keep thinking about what you told me about the song that came to you in the alleyway. Did the night look like this?" 

"I was piss drunk, stumbling around like an idiot. How would I know?" But when he looks up, he's flooded with the memory; his nausea, the smell of the dumpster he leaned on, and then the sky, clear and open, infinite. "I mean...yeah," he adds. "Yeah...I guess it did." 

"It's like we're at the beginning again," Stu says. "Not _that_ beginning, but, uh, a new one. You know, rebirth...Everything's a circle." 

Without thinking, Murdoc rests his head on his shoulder, reacquaints himself another position they used to fall into. His head still fits the way it always had. "Yeah," he says. "A beginning..." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to reach out with any thoughts or concerns here, or on Tumblr/Twitter. I'm greywindys on both. =)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so as I said in the note on my last fic, I can't make any promises on how often this will be updated, but I'm open to requests. And as always, thoughts and concerns are very helpful and appreciated! Take care and thank you for reading <3


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